The Unknown Prince
by angelofpeaceandwar045
Summary: Ned Stark and all of his men survive the Tower of Joy...as do the Kingsguard that swore to protect Lyanna. They then flee to the free cities with Jon Sand, to raise him until it is time for him to take the throne. Highly AU. Multiple pairings that will surprise you. Rated M to be safe.
1. The Tower of Joy

**I own nothing of this, just having fun. All characters belong to George R.R. Martin.**

Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and his companions, Howland Reed, Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Ser Mark Ryswell had traveled long and far. This war had seen to that, Rhaegar Targaryen had seen to that. If he had not kidnapped…that no longer mattered. The Prince was now dead and the Seven Kingdoms belonged to Robert Baratheon. Now Ned, and those he considered his closest friends and allies, had one last task until the war had truly ended.

The war would end, truly, once Lyanna Stark was brought home and the nightmare she suffered during her long and torturous capture was ended.

Each man seemed anxious to see this journey to an end, they would all return home and put the cursed war behind them. None of them, however, were more eager than Ned. Catelyn would have had their child by now, and he would be a father, if he were not already. But such things were for later. Now the Tower of Joy was in view and so were the final three members of the Kingsguard, beside the Kingslayer and Ser Barristan, still breathing.

The knights watched as Ned and his companions dismount and approach them. None of them had flinched or moved, showing their character. Ser Gerold stood at the head, his sword drawn and his white cape flapping against the wind. Ser Oswell was kneeling next to him, sharpening his blade until it was more than fine. He was known for such. He had risen to his feet once it had been done. Then stood Ser Arthur Dayne at the rear, his helm in hand and eyes upon Ned.

"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said to them.

"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.

"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.

"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."

"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold.

Ned's wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand. They were seven against three.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." He then turned to his men. "Sheathe your blades." His men and the Kingsguard froze, none of them knew how to react, it seemed.

"What are you doing," demanded the Sword of Morning. He had yet to sheathe his blade along with his two sworn brothers, Ned's men had an even more difficult time in doing so.

"Ending this, none of us here have to die." Ned responded. "I told you to stay your arms." His voice trembled with a mixture of anger and sadness.

"But my lord," Martyn Cassel spoke out. "We-

"I gave you a command, Martyn. It's best you follow." Ned commanded. "Unless you never wish to see your son again." He turned to face the rest of his men. "If any of wish to see home or those you love again, you will do as I command. This war is over, don't make widows and mourners of your family now."

They all followed his orders, Howland seemed the most reluctant, keeping his blade out the longest, but eventually he mirrored those he rode with. He kept his resolve.

"What sort of trick is this," Ser Oswell demanded. His eyes were piercing like that of a bat, Ned could see them through his helm easily.

"Instead of knee benders, Stark takes us for fools." Ser Gerold concluded, stubborn like the bull he was.

"This is no trick," Ned looked at the knights, with sorrow, before remembering his voice. "This is from one man to another, begging them to see his sister." He could see Ser Arthur flinch for nothing more than a mere moment. Ned knew the knight had loved his sister, Ashara, as fiercely as he loved Lyanna.

"We have sworn vows," the Sword of Morning bellowed. "We do not break them."

"Then take me as a hostage," before his companions could protest, Ned had drawn his sword from its scabbard and threw it at the feet of Ser Oswell. "Let me see my sister, let me look upon her and see her. I swear we will not fight you if you do. None of us have to die."

"What make you sure that we would die," the Lord Commander spat. "We are Kingsguard, we do not fail."

"But like any other, you die," Ned spoke plainly. He would go on his knees if he had to. Anything for his sister, he thought, even if it meant his honor. It meant nothing to him at this point. All that mattered was Lyanna.

After a pause, Ser Gerold finally responded, "Ser Arthur." The knight stood at the ready, "Take Lord Stark to see his sister. Kill him if he does anything."

"As you command," the Sword of Morning approached Ned and beckoned him to follow. He sheathed his blade as they began towards the tower.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw both Theo Wull and Ser Mark Ryswell move towards him but he merely lifted his hand and they stopped. He knew that if anything happened to him that Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell would share his fate soon after but he hoped that it would not come to that. It need not come to that, he prayed to the Old Gods to see it through.

When they entered the Tower of Joy, Ned felt cramped. It was small and could barely fit the two of them through the door. Once inside, it did not seem like a prison as he had imagined. There were paintings of the sea and mountains decorating the walls, books littering the desks and tables before him._ It appeared more of a home than anything_, Ned thought. Then he became distracted by what sounded like screaming.

It was a woman.

"Lyanna," Ned shouted as he began towards the steps but stopped as a hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him back.

"It is of no use, Lord Stark," Ser Arthur mumbled. "There is nothing you can do. She has been screaming all morning," Ned had wanted to call the man a bastard and reached to his scabbard for his sword but only felt smooth leather instead of cold pommel.

Ser Arthur then continued, seeing through what Ned had attempted. "But I assure you that the pain is only momentarily." His voice was calm and assuring at this point, it had none of the malice he had on his tongue earlier.

"What do you mean momentarily," Ned demanded. "What has he done to her?"

The Sword of Morning merely sighed, knowing who he was asked about. "He has done nothing to her besides love her, Lord Stark."

Ned's face turned pale, he had his suspicions but now he knew. His sister, the She-Wolf, was no longer the wild girl he had once known. The tourney had seen to that when she had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by Rhaegar.

"I must see her," Ned broke free of Ser Arthur's grip. "She needs me." With that the two men hurried to the top of the tower. By then the screaming had stopped and now a faint sound could be heard. It was the sound of a newborn babe crying.

Ned paused and said nothing, only looking at the wood in front of him. That was when Ser Arthur gently pushed against the door and revealed to Ned what he had almost died to protect.

Lyanna was there in front of Ned, smiling at a bundle of white from where the crying came from. No child bore from rape could receive such tender care from a mother.

"Hush child," Lyanna whispered. Her voice was faint, weak from the birthing. "There is no longer a need to cry," tears began to roll on her face. "Your uncle is here now, he will protect you for me." She paused. Lyanna would not let herself appear weak. "And I am to be with your father soon." That was when she turned to her brother.

By the look on her face, Ned knew she was not long for the world.

Several midwives stood next to an old Maester, who had turned to the newcomers and bowed his head with melancholy. He need not speak and neither did they, as they left the room. Their duty had been done. Ned noticed that the old man, along with one of the handmaidens, was stained with the blood of his sister. The birthing did not drain her, instead it had killed her.

Without any more hesitation, Ned was by her side and comforting her as best he could. "You will not leave us," he pleaded. "You can not leave us." He did not know why he said us. Brandon and father were dead and Benjen might be as well. The youngest of the Starks was now at the Wall and unless Ned's Ravens had reached him in time, his brother was now a member of the Night's Watch. But like with Catelyn, he would not let such thoughts plague his mind now.

"I'm so sorry, Ned. For our father, for Brandon," Lyanna turned her eyes toward her child. "For your father…your sweet father who's only wrong was being his father's son."

"What is the child's name," Ned sought to comfort her. He knew it was all he could do.

Lyanna smiled. "His name is Jon, Ned. Jon Targaryen, the first of his name of House Targaryen and House Stark. A child born of both fire and ice. He is the son of my husband," she half-whispered. "Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. I only wish his father could see him, he would have been so happy."

Ned turned to Ser Arthur, who merely nodded at him, confirming what his sister had told him.

It pained Ned to realize that the war had been for nothing. Lyanna was not kidnapped and neither was she raped. That their brother and their father had died for nothing more than Brandon's temper. That his good-brother had died for nothing at the Trident, save for the love of a woman. That Lyanna had run off, fleeing a life she did not want. Leaving a man she did not love for one that she had with all her heart. She would be remembered as the woman who had torn the kingdoms apart because of that.

Robert would say she was kidnapped and raped and died because of a madman and rapist but that would be because he knew what he wanted to know. If told the truth, he would kill the boy immediately and Lyanna would forever be known as the girl who destoyed the kingdoms because she could not close her legs.

Lyanna looked upon Ned with worry, she had known what went through his mind. "Don't let him hurt my child, brother. Don't let Robert hurt, Jon. You must not tell him, you mustn't," her voice became weaker and weaker as she continued. Death was coming for her swifter now. Ned continued to hold her in his arms as she faded more and more. "Promise me, Ned. Promise me, you'll protect him. Promise me, you will keep my son safe. Promise me, Ned."

"I promise," Ned felt his eyes sting and the wetness of tears dripping down his face. She lifted up her babe and Ned took him into his arms.

Lyanna only smiled as her breathing slowed even further. She closed her eyes shortly after, and they never opened. Only then did Ned notice the blue roses and their aroma filling the room. Those were her favorite and it only made the pain of her leaving that much worse.

"I am sorry, Lord Stark," Ser Arthur removed his helm and bowed his head. "She was a good woman, she would have made a fine queen."

Ned said nothing until the knight lifted his head and their eyes had locked on to one another's. "She was and she was Rhaegar's wife, was she not?"

"Aye, she was. Everything she said was the truth. That night after the tourney she fled and found us down the Kingsroad," he choked. "We were simply enjoying an evening ride when she caught up to us, she was wearing a black cloak and covered her face so we could not see who she was."

"Then what happened," Ned asked while looking at the boy. He could not take his eyes off of the child.

"We shouted for her to stop but she did no such thing and continued for us. Oswell and I drew our steel but Rhaegar...Rhaegar had ordered us to stand down. She rode to us and as soon as she was close enough, she leapt from her horse and jumped on to him." He chuckled softly, wiping tears from his eyes. Like so many others, Ser Arthur Dayne had lost much. "They went crashing to the dirt and we thought she was stabbing him at first but then we heard laughter and crying. Your sister was begging Rhaegar to save her. She wanted him to take her away, like he had asked the evening before, she wanted to leave Winterfell and your family behind. She did not want to be with a family that auctioned her like a slave, that was what she told us. She did not want to marry a man who was an animal by all rights."

Robert was an animal. Ned knew that to be true, he was barely a man and already a father to a bastard daughter in the Eyrie. When he was not on the field fighting, he was in his cups. When he was not making plans with Jon Arryn, he was in between a woman's legs. Robert did not deserve Lyanna at all.

"I remember my father and her discussing it. I was silent the whole time," Ned forced down the tears. "I remember how he refused and sent her away. I remember seeing her cry as she left him. He told her that she had to keep the promise he had made to the Baratheons and to honor it no matter the man he was. That she could maybe love Robert one day."

"And that is what your sister had told Rhaegar. I remember those words clearly, 'You could love a man with all your heart but it could not change his nature.'"

Those words were near to the last Ned had heard from his sister before her disappearance. They would haunt him until his death, just like her last. Of that he was certain.

"Then what happened?" Ned had found himself to find his voice, like his sister, he did not want to appear weak to the boy.

"Rhaegar brought her here and this is where we have been living while the Kingdom burned... Now, Lord Stark, what will you do?" Ser Arthur reached for the hilt of his sword. "I am sworn to my oath still, before my Prince and closest friend had left, he made me and my brothers swear to protect Lady Lyanna and their child unto the death. What say you then, do you love your sister as much as you say or are you still Robert's dog?"

Ned knew what to say. His honor may have died that moment but he knew that he needed to do what was right.

"You go and you leave," Ned said. He lifted his head so his eyes could meet those of Ser Arthur. "And you will take him with you," extended the boy to him. "And you will keep him safe, keep him from Robert. I ask you, I beg you, to keep him safe. Leave with the rest of your guard and flee to the free cities."

Ser Arthur released the grip he had on Dawn and took the boy into his arms, "Why, if I may? Why do you task me to do this? Why don't you take the boy?"

"Because I will be under to much suspicion if I take him. I have had only one woman in my life, Lady Catelyn, my Lady Wife. I had too much damned honor to have taken a woman before her, it is something that I have now regret or otherwise I would take the boy to Winterfell and raise him as my bastard but that is not a good life. Then there is the possibility that he would die if I take him, I promise you that if Robert finds out or even has suspicions of the boy, he would kill him and then he will kill me and burn my family to the ground. The same as you three if you stay any longer. So that is why I ask you to take him and raise him as your own. If not for your duty then the love you had for Rhaegar."

"Why, is Robert not a brother to you? Is it not unwise for you to-

"The Robert I knew is dead," Ned spat. His sudden anger caused the boy to whimper but not cry. "He died the day I saw him smile as Tywin Lannister presented him the corpses of the Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. He is no king," he spat at his feet. "Raise the boy and bring him home when is time for him to reclaim what is his by right."

The Sword of Morning merely looked at him with more suspicion but was accepting what he just been told.

"Let us gather your sworn brothers and my men, Ser Arthur. We have much to discuss and plan for the future."

**So this is the beginning to my story. I've read a few of these and decided to do one of my own. I got the idea a few hours ago when I was watching the Usual Suspects, it's a weird combination I know. I'm going to see this to the end and hope some of you will join me on this adventure. I hope you have a great day or night, whoever is reading this. Don't be shy, please review. **


	2. The Path Home-Ned

After what needed to be done was done, Ned had made his preparations to bring his sister home. All of his men, including those of Rhaegar, had helped in some form in preparing her body, they had all helped in hiding her birthing. She bore new clothes once the Silent Sisters had attended to her and given her final rights. Afterwards Ser Oswell slit their throats and left them in the tower. Just like he did with the Maester and the midwives, no one had objected to his actions.

When the last of the blood shed was finished, Ned looked upon Lyanna and thought her sleeping, taking a nap in the cart in which they carried her. The night sky above him reminded him of when they were in at the tourney, her sleeping in her tent. At least feigning it, before running off.

_She looked more peaceful now that she did then_, Ned had thought. She no longer had to worry of Robert and the life she did not want, she seemed to be at peace. He could not help but think she did not deserve this fate but kept himself in check.

The love that Ned had felt for Robert was now replaced with hate. If it were not for his whoring and his drinking, Lyanna could have loved, would have loved him. But such thoughts were of no use. She was set in her ways, his sister would never love him. He knew not what he would do when he next saw the King but kindness and brotherhood would not be amongst it. His sister was the cost of his naivety and that reminder had caused more and more thoughts of revenge began to transpire in the back of Ned's mind, he knew he had to remain calm. He would serve Robert and take action later, as was agreed. He was a Lord now and would have to remain so until then and still the thought of him being such was unfamiliar.

Ned Stark was no longer the second son of the Lord of Winterfell, he was the Lord and he was the Warden of the North. He had great power now, power that he needed to keep. Power that would be necessary for his nephew when he would return from the free cities.

Then there was the reality of him being an uncle. That was as unfamiliar to Ned as being a Lord but it felt more fulfilling to him. He would miss the boy terribly. No more than few days old and Jon seemed to have the same spirit his sister had. He would have love to see the boy and watch him grow but knew he could not. It was for his own safety that he was being sent off into hiding.

"Best for the boy that I do not know where he goes," Ned had spoken to Ser Gerold.

The knight, along with his other two sworn brothers had removed their armor and replaced it for common clothes of plain brown. Their armor and weapons were hidden in a cart being steered by the Lord Commander, who nodded to Ned as he lifted the hood of the cloak he bore, in an effort to hide his face.

"We will keep him safe, Lord Stark," the Sword of Morning spoke up. All though he was not asked for his opinion, Ned took great comfort in the words he offered. He looked like a knight of the tales of old while sitting upon his mare and looking on ahead.

"I trust you will not forget what we had agreed upon," Ser Gerold added.

"Of course," Ned responded. "And I will never. I made a promise and it is one that I intend to keep." He returned his gaze towards the cart where Lyanna was lying and he softened. Her memory and her son would keep him in check. It was like that for a few moments.

"We must leave now," the White Bull spoke suddenly as he and his men made their final preparations.

A fourth person then took to joining them, a face that neither Ned or his men had seen before. She a dornish woman and comely looking. Her hair long and her face pretty. She was chosen to be the Prince's whet nurse and held him when she took her seat next to Ser Gerold. They were fortunate that she did not know the fate ahead of her, she would not have accepted if she did.

"Keep him safe," Ned said.

"We will," Ser Arthur said. He clicked his tongue as his steed went forward and led them on. Ser Gerold snapped the reigns on the wagon and he soon followed.

Ser Oswell was the last of them to leave, he had taken the job of being their rear guard. "We will keep him safe, Lord Stark and we will meet again." He turned his horse round and kicked his ankles against its sides. Waving his hand in the air as he raced to meet with his brothers. Quickly fading from sight as they had.

Ned did not even realize that he was staring until Howland Reed, a man he had grown to trust like a brother, approached him. "My lord," the man of the Neck whispered. "It is time for us to go. There is nothing left for us here."

Ned looked to the shorter man then looked to the Tower of Joy before returning his gaze to him.

Within moments both Martyn Cassel and Willem Dustin had an idea of what he meant and entered the tower. When they had left it, the faint smell of fire and smoke had followed them and thus their business in Dorne was at an end.

Ned turned to his men and they all looked upon with solemn face, the same faces they had when he exited the tower with Ser Arthur and the Crowned Prince. The same faces they had when he told them of what happened in the Tower of Joy and Lyanna's final confession. They bore those same looks when each man had sworn an oath to keep the birthing a secret and their plans as well. It was those same faces they bore when they had joined their Lord in bending the knee to his nephew and vowing to see him upon the Iron Throne one day as King.

"Come," Ned ordered. "We are to return home. There is nothing left for us here." With that they had left and had left the Tower of Joy burning at their heels. Their secret forever hidden.

Ned kept to himself most days, often brooding in his solace. He occasionally cried and held no shame in it. Those that followed him would leave him to his grief and kept to themselves on the voyage. They spoke of home and what they would do on their return. Martyn spoke highly of Jory, his last remaining son, and how he would try to have his brother, Ser Rodrick, knight him when he grew older. Ned held no doubt in that coming to pass. Jory would become a knight and a great one.

Lord Willem Dustin spoke often of his wife, Lady Barbrey, and how he had promise he would return to her on the finest steed of the Seven Kingdoms. Most of the men laughed and had japed at him for that, including Ned to everyone's' surprise. His mount was a fine Red Stallion but there were many horses far greater but none of them dare say that, they all needed their reprieve from the hardships they had faced and would forever live with.

Theo Wull talked of returning to his house and often tried to get Ethan Glover to join him. Since Brandon had died, his former squire felt responsible for not stopping him from going to King's Landing but nothing would change what had happened. Glover knew that, he said it often to remind himself. The Lord of Winterfell did not doubt then man's loyalty. He would keep his vow or die if he did not.

Ser Mark Ryswell had not changed. He still remained soft spoken and gentle. He watched Jon with great care as the boy was shown to him and his companions. Ned would find a way to repay him for his kindness, if he could. He began to think of the recent vacancy in the Kingsguard but decided it could wait for later.

Then there was Howland, the smallest but fiercest of the lot. Like Ned, he kept to himself. He spoke rarely but he would mention his wife Jyanna and his daughter Meera if asked. He spoke of them in a gentle fondness and smiled when he did. Ned felt envious of the man. The man of the Neck had loved his wife and his daughter. They seemed to be everything to him.

Ned had not known his Lady Wife long or well. She was betrothed to his brother Brandon before strangling himself to death in the Red Keep, in a vain attempt to save their father. He felt guilt as they consummated their wedding, knowing that she thought of Brandon as they fulfilled their duty as husband and wife. He could still feel her scratching him, wincing as he remembered the cuts on his neck and back.

Ned had hoped their marriage would change, given time, and she would come to love her Lord Husband. Still, it did not matter to him, in the back of his mind, he knew her love did no matter to him. His happiness seemed to have died with Lyanna, he felt himself slip as she did. Yet he could not do so.

Ned Stark had a duty, an oath he swore to follow until his death.

Their days on the Narrow Sea quickly drew to an end and they were within a gazing distance of the docks of King's Landing. It was then that Ned had gathered his men and reminded them of their oath, each man swearing it once more as they gazed upon a lifeless Lyanna. A symbol for all those who had suffered and loss during the war. He did not fear his men forsaking their vows, there were no better than them and he knew their secret would stay.

Then as they exited the boat, the stink of Flea Bottom filling their noses and the salt of the sea splashing in their faces, they witnessed an Honor Guard approaching. At the head of the guard was Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and the man who fostered Ned as a boy and became a second father to him. He wore the same plate armor as he always did, with the crest of his House upon his chest. The Falcon and Moon were familiar to Ned just as they were familiar to the man who rode next to the Lord of the Eyrie.

Robert Baratheon sat tall upon his mount, a black stallion. It was probably as wild and untamable as he was but Ned never dare say that. The Demon of the Trident was now King and wore the crown upon his head with a smile, eagerly awaiting the return of his queen.

Ned could not help but wonder if history would remember that Robert was the grandson of a Targaryen and that he and Rhaegar were cousins by blood. He wondered what the new king would do if anyone dare call him kinslayer.

The Lord of Winterfell continued to look at the new king and wondered how long it would take for him to forget his sister. He wondered how many women Robert would bed that night and each night after.

The king must have read Ned's thoughts as he slowed down. Those who followed him began to do the same, those whose faces were not covered by helms look bewildered and wondered as to why they had stopped. Their focus shifting from Robert to Ned and Ned to Robert.

Ned could not help but blame the grim look upon his face. He motioned for his men to bring out his sister.

Before he could realize what was happening, Robert Baratheon was in front of Ned. His face had a look of both anger and sadness. He had realized what had happened but did not know that it was all because of him.

When Lyanna was brought out, looking peaceful and happy, Robert rushed to her and began to sob. Soon it became crying and eventually shouting, he cursed every Targaryen. He wanted them dead, his malice and bloodlust apparent. He wanted to kill every last one and he would not rest until he had done so. He shouted and shouted. He begged the Seven, the Old Gods and all the others to give her back to him.

None one had dared to say anything, in fear of what their king might have done if they did.

Then Ned had felt his hand on something and looked down to see it upon Robert's shoulder. He did not know why he had done this but he found himself comforting Robert, as Ser Arthur had done for him days before. He did nothing more than look upon Ned and wrap around his arms around him.

"Why brother," he cried. "Why is she dead? Why did the Gods' curse me? They give me a crown but not my beloved."

_She was never your beloved_, those were the words Ned wanted to say but he kept them to himself. "It was a fever," he said in their place. "She was too far gone when we had arrived."

"Why, Ned," Robert begged him, as if he could change anything. "Why did she die?"

"I do not know, Robert," Jon Arryn spoke out. The man they had looked to as a father tried to offer comfort but Robert spurred him away.

"Did they die," the King now hissed. "Are those bastards dead?"

Ned knew he referred to the Kingsguard and had rehearsed what he would tell him. He had done so over a hundred times in the last hour alone.

"They are, your Grace," the Lord of Winterfell replied. "We killed them and fed them to the sea, by now they are at the lowest pits of the abyss."

Robert looked sternly at him and whispered, "Good." He then turned to Lyanna once more and said nothing.

Then Jon took command and had everything ordered his men to bring Lyanna to the Sept, and keep her there until Ned rode for Winterfell. He knew that all the Starks were buried in their crypts and Lyanna was no exception, despite Robert's demands for her to be placed on a hill where the sun would shine upon her.

"She is a Stark of Winterfell," Ned had told him. "She belongs with her family."

"She belonged with me," Robert whimpered. The Demon of the Trident did not seem so strong anymore.

Ned could not help but think Rhaegar should have lived, he knew he would have been a just king. A True King. Robert was nothing more than a soldier and from what history had shown, they are the worst of kings.

Soon Jon had managed to calm Robert down and had managed to convince him to rest, with the help of an essence of nightshade in his wine. He then brought Ned towards his quarters in the Red Keep, a place he never wished to be in again. He knew nothing more than death awaited Starks in that place and he would not succumb to it like his honorable father and foolish brother.

It was then, much to his surprise, that Ned bore witness to his Lady Wife and their newborn babe waiting for him.

Lady Catelyn smiled at him as he entered their room. She looked beautiful, Ned had thought, more beautiful than she did during their wedding. Now, unlike then, she seemed happy to see her Lord Husband and was not looking to hide her tears. She held a bundle in her arms, their son.

As he approached them his resolve began to falter, his harshness seemed to fade but not entirely disappear. That was until she handed him their son.

When Ned took him into his arms, he felt he would break the boy. He seemed so frail, unlike Jon. He then realized that Jon appeared more Stark than Targaryen just as his son appeared to be more Tully than Stark, his hair a mixture of brown and red and face as soft as his mother's.

"Does he have a name yet," Ned asked his wife.

"No, not yet, my Love," Catelyn's words sounded genuine but Ned had doubts in the back of his mind, doubts he soon crushed. "I wanted to wait for you."

Ned looked at his wife with a gentle face before whispering, "Robb." He mumbled. After the friend he had in the Eyrie. The man he knew and not the man he knows now. "Your name is Robb Stark."

**Yeah, I know this is a quick update but I had the juices flowing today. Chapter three should be up by tonight or tomorrow and four by Sunday, maybe five too. Until then review and read. Let me know what you think. Have a good one.**


	3. The Father-Ricant

The sun was high in Qarth, but it was to be expected. Most days the sun was high and blistering, yet on this day it was more so than most. Ricant Night merely sat in his chair and gazed at the cloudless sky, the heat was nothing he was not used to. Born and raised in Dorne, in one of the old noble houses, the heat was what he lived in for most of his life. His son, Jon, born in Dorne and raised in this city of Essos was no less used to the heat like his father.

Jon had been born in the heat, Ricant's mind had told him. This is nothing he would not succumb to. He and his two brothers, Cynall and Sture, had been raising the boy for the last seven years since his mother died.

Jon had learned the art of the sword from his father, he would often marvel as he watched him practice with his brothers. No matter had hard they had tried they had never bested him. Their skill was great, he told his son, but his was better but it was nothing without humility and the boy took great pride in those words and swore to follow them on that day.

Despite Ricant's efforts in teaching his son humility and honor, parts of his brothers had rubbed off on the boy as they had given him their lessons. They were each of equal importance but some things the boy did not need.

Sture had taught Jon all he knew of Westeros, which was a great and detailed history of its most famous knights. The boy marveled at the lessons of Aemon Targaryen, the Dragon Knight. That often led to him imagining that he was the knight reborn, he often said so as he practiced by his lonesome. His imagination keeping him company when no one else did.

His elder brother also taught Jon the simple courtesies a man needs when he presents himself to others, Ricant would often add more to those lessons when his brother was not near. He did not want to offend him when he had shown the boy something wrong; he had too much respect for him to do that in front of him. Such courtesy often made Sture laugh, saying his brother was too humble at times and should correct him in front of the boy.

Cynall was a different situation. The man often swore as he taught Jon how to be an archer, Ricant cringed the first time he heard his son say 'fuck.' The lecture he gave to the two of them would have made a Maester speechless. Although it left his brother laughing, he said that he understood and would attempt to control himself while he was with the boy. Despite the tongue and humor that befallen upon Jon, he had become a very capable with a bow. He rarely missed the target set before him, whether it was in the shape of a man or hanging and moving, his aim was almost always true. Those skills, amongst the many other lessons he learned, were becoming greater and greater as the days past, even with him being so young.

Then one day, Ricant knew, in the years to come, Jon would be able to overcome all three of them. The boy was proving himself to be capable. So much that even the Dragon Knight might avoid him, if the dead could come back.

"He will be what he was meant to," Ricant mumbled to himself. He soon moved from his comfort and left to find his son. He knew Jon to would be in his other lessons. The tutor, that he had paid for, came highly recommended to him, her lessons on history of the Seven Kingdoms and all of the Houses were said to be the best in all of Westeros and he was surprised during their first meeting that she said she would teach his son for merely four walls and three daily meals.

He and his brothers', with the help of Jon who guided the woman throughout their home, had welcomed her into it and gave her the spare room used for storing unneeded items, which they soon moved to another place.

She said her name was Melisandre, a fire haired woman of great beauty and of height as well. Ricant at times, more often than not, would gaze upon her. he worried about her catching him in the act. He would watch her during his son's studies or when she walked throughout the house. He would watch her as she read her books in the evening and admired how the glowing of the fire made her more beautiful.

Despite those other times, Ricant admired her most when she ate. He did not know why he did so but could not help but find her more beautiful at that time. At one point, when she caught him gazing but did not admit it, she returned the look. Jon noticed and asked what she saw.

Melisandre merely said, "Nothing," before snickering and continuing with her meal.

The boy was dumbfounded before she told him to return to his meal. He never refused her or said anything back.

When he found them in the large room, Ricant once more found himself staring at the woman as she gave the boy his lesson.

"Continue," she said. Her accent was exotic and completely foreign. Ricant once asked her once from where she was but Melisandre only said that it was far away. He had not asked her since.

"House Bolton," Jon said. They boy spoke fluent Valyrian, thanks to the tutor, and was often spoken to, by her, in that tongue. She claimed she wanted him to remain at his best, so she always spoke to him in different tongues at different times. Today it appeared to be the old language.

Yesterday it was the common tongue, Ricant thought as he continued his watch.

"Their sigil is that of a flayed man proper. Their words are, 'Our blades our sharp.' Lord Apparent is Lord Roose Bolton. The Lady of the Dreadfort is Lady Bethany Bolton of Houses Bolton and Ryswell. The heir of House Bolton is their son, Domeric Bolton."

"Very good," Melisandre smiled at the boy. He returned her gesture but he steeled himself as she continued. "But you hesitated by a mere moment when you named his heir."

Ricant shook his head but knew the woman to be right, the boy did hesitate and in the future he could afford not do so. Then there was the matter that the red haired woman was right more often than not and she did not appreciate to hear otherwise. She made that clear the first time.

Once Cynall said something to her, a whisper if anything and she did nothing more than turn to him and whisper something soft into his ear. He turned every shade of white and Jon howled with laughter as his uncle's eyes had widened to such an extent that his brothers even snickered at his misfortune.

"She is right son," Ricant spoke out. He then approached the pair and made himself known.

"Father, is it time for me to practice yet?" The boy was always eager for his practice, more so than his studies but did them nonetheless.

"Not until you finish, Jon," Melisandre told him. "We must finish the houses of the North and then those of the Riverlands." She then turned her focus towards Ricant once more, "In Old Valyrian." She then returned to the boy and used the old tongue once more, "Continue."

Jon groaned as he named the houses. He named more houses of the North, House Reed, House Ryswell, House Mormont and House Umber was said before naming the last house of the North. "House Stark," he spoke. "Their sigil is that of a Direwolf. Their words are, 'Winter is Coming.' The Lord Apparent is Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. The Lady of Winterfell is Lady Catelyn of Houses Stark and Tully. The heir to House Stark is their son, Robb Stark."

As the boy continued, Ricant found himself remembering a different time. One where he was who he was but he had let go of those memories, since he knew nothing could bring them back, bring back the man he once was. It was a time when he had loved a woman who could never be his. When he swore a vow to give his life in the protection of another, when had became one of the most feared men in the world. But such things he could think about no more. That man, by all accounts, was dead and everything he was with him.

_Nothing more than a memory_, he thought as he found himself staring once more at the fire haired woman. She did not notice, or did and said nothing, but she would not if be able to if she had. He left them to their studies as he went to wander.

An hour had passed and Ricant had found himself at the docks of Qarth, a good long walk away from his home. The sound of a bellowing crowd and stink of fish was all too familiar to the man. He sometimes dreamt of going home and other times he dreamt of the future and what he and his brothers wanted to transpire and the other events that could.

He had passed a whore, offering her his services in exchange for a few coppers. He ignored the frail sun kissed woman and merely continued through to the harbor. He heard another man take her on her offer as she began to negotiate for one higher, as he knew she would.

Ricant then found himself standing and staring into the Narrow Sea, his mind once again focusing on the home he had long since left. It was then that he noticed something in the corner of his eye.

It was a man and boy. He did not know why but he found himself staring at them, not as he did with Melisandre as he admired her, but, instead with curiosity. Both the father and son, he assumed, bore hair of the color blue. Ricant figured them for Tyroshi, since a good lot of them bore such hair and thought nothing more of it.

There was the idea, however, of them not being Tyroshi. Soon Ricant found himself, deprived of his rationality, traveling towards the pair.

The boy caught notice of his movement and ushered the older man for them to move, which he did without hesitation. They soon disappeared from sight and were hidden amongst the masses of merchants and slaves alike.

Ricant shook his head, smiling at his foolishness and returned to his home.

It took him time, longer than it took him to get to the docks he knew, to return home. The sun was beginning to set and he knew that Jon did not see to his sword lesson that day. He would make him up to him on the morrow; the boy would have two lessons instead of one. It would give Melisandre a day of rest that he knew she must have needed, despite her never asking for one in the two years she had been teaching Jon. He could scarcely believe that the boy was now seven.

Ricant felt old in that moment as he realized he was no longer the young man he was. His silver hair would eventually grey. He could already see strands of it in his whiskers, which were full and kept at a tolerable length.

When he finally saw his house, he saw the same blue hair as he had earlier. Except now they were standing by his home staring at him and Sture by their side, it seemed he had returned earlier than he had expected from his trip to Pentos. His brother appeared grimmer, if that could be possible.

When Ricant approached the three of them, the two blue haired strangers' faces had become clearer to him. When he was a few steps from them, he realized that he knew the man. Except now he looked for different from then. His hair was red the last time he saw him and his face appeared to have aged by twenty years, no longer the young squire he was. Jon Connington was not in the fine armor he last saw him in, now he bore torn clothes, his breeches and shirt both exposing the chainmail beneath it. He wore full plate armor the last he saw him and had the title of the Lord of Griffin's Roost, now he was poorly clothed and the weapon he carried appeared to be a common longsword. Not the blade he once had but something to protect him nonetheless.

Ricant said nothing and merely motioned his head towards the door and all four of them were soon inside. Then he finally spoke.

"How in all of the Seven Hells are you alive," he questioned. All though he was not yelling, he noticed the boy looking scared. He often had the effect on others when he was angry.

"I could say the same to you," Jon said. His breath stank and Ricant could smell it clearly, despite being a small distance from him. It was rumored that he drank himself to death. "But that does not matter now."

"Does not matter, why does it not matter?"

"Look at the boy," Sture said. He was silent until then, his face still grim like before.

Ricant then realized Jon was not where he had left him hours ago, he worried for a moment but his mind eased when he heard the sound of an arrow hitting its target and encouragement from a man and woman. He knew he was safe with Cynall outside and with Melisandre encouraging him. He knew his son was distracted but he did not know for how much longer.

"What about the boy," Ricant mumbled. He hoped his son would not hear him for he would come and greet him. Jon was still in the habit of rushing to his father and jumping into his arms for a hug, sometimes he feared he would not come home when he would disappear for days at a time, sometimes weeks.

"Just look at him," Connington's gaze was fixed on until he complied.

When Ricant finally looked upon the boy, he saw a face he thought he would never see. The hair neither was dark likes his mother's nor were his eyes black or his skin olive. His eyes were violet, like his father's. His hair must have been silver for it to be the blue it was now. He even had his face.

"It can't be," Ricant whispered. He heard Jon calling for him as both Cynall and Melisandre shouted for him to stop but he did not listen.

"Father," his son stopped and looked upon him, wondering why he was starring at this boy so strangely. "Who is he, father? And can he be my friend?" He was innocent still, oblivious of whom he was and those before him but it could not be so anymore.

Ricant purely ignored his son in that moment as he stared at this ghost in front of him. He muttered only one word, "Aegon?"

**Sorry I'm a day late but here is chapter 3. Thanks for reading, I'll be back on Saturday or Sunday. Maybe even both. If you can, please review. I like to know what you think, I'm not especially good at family type moments and would like some feedback if possible. Again, thanks for reading and have a good one. **


	4. A Farewell-Catelyn

**So to let people know, the year is around 291. I pushed the timeline back a couple of years for the Greyjoy Rebellion and such. Blunder on my part. Oh well, it's easily rectified since this is an AU story. Don't worry though, everything that happens in the books still happens in this but like I said, at a later time. **

**I own nothing and A song of ice and fire belong to George R.R. Martin. **

Ned had walked into the godswood earlier that day and had not left it since. Catelyn did not know why her husband was so devote to his faith in the Old Gods. In all their years of marriage, close to ten years now, she was still dumfounded by it. The Tully felt that it was because of his heritage but in the beginning she felt he did so to spite her. Then as time passed she found the matter to be slight. He said nothing about the Sept and her faith in the Seven as she said nothing of his faith in the Old gods.

"I still feel like a stranger here," Catelyn said. She saw her husband kneeling before the Heart Tree.

"You shouldn't," Ned spoke before rising. "You are my lady, that of Winterfell, and have been so for years." He turned to face her and smiled, his small and brief ones. The ones that made his face blush like a young girl.

"Of course," she returned his smile. "A raven came from Kings' Landing, it is for you," she confessed her reason for seeing him and immediately came to regret it.

Ned's face turned from pleasant to stern in moments.

Catelyn thought the men to be good friends. When she had seen Robert and Ned together for the first time, both men appeared to be happy. Then ever since the war ended, her husband rarely spoke of the man he grew up with in the Eyrie. When he did, he spoke of him in a different light. It was not of a man speaking of a friend but instead of a stranger. Sometimes he spoke of him in a venomous way.

"What does it say," Ned asked as he was handed the paper.

"I do not know," she lied. Catelyn had already read it, once when Maester Luwin had handed it to her and twice before she entered the Godswood. She just wanted to wait longer before telling her husband. She did not want him to go.

When he opened the paper, he said nothing. She knew his mind was filled with words he would not, could not, utter. Her husband was a man of honor; he would never lower himself with something so little.

"That bastard," Ned crumpled the paper in anger. "Balon Greyjoy, you bastard!" His tongue had surprised her, as did his anger.

"My love," Catelyn was surprised the Greyjoys had sparked a rebellion. Even more so at this time, only a few short years after Robert had started a war for Lyanna. Her husband never talked about then. The one time that she had asked him about his sister and her death, Ned, who was always calm and patient, glared at her before walking away. Never had she felt so much fear in her life, later that night he came to her and begged for forgiveness. He had confessed that he still missed his sister and had still cried over her, as well as those of his father his brother. She asked him no more questions after that, fearing the strength and rage that dwelled within his northern blood.

Catelyn could not bring herself to blame him for how he reacted, they were only married two years then and still strangers, despite Robb being a growing babe. The incident, and the Seven in their ways, had managed to bring the two closer and eventually to the point in which they loved one another as they do now.

"Thank you," Ned whispered.

"For what?"

"I'm sure Maester Luwin received the letter and told you first," this time he kept the smile on his face longer.

"How did you know?"

"You're my wife and my love," his rough hand caressed her face before pushing aside strands of her auburn hair. "There is no one in this world who knows you better."

Ned had truth to his words, as he often did. Catelyn then pressed her lips against his for a quick moment before turning to leave him. She knew he would call his banners soon and knew that it was her responsibility to tell their children. It was one of the many difficulties in being a northerner's wife and mother.

When Ned found her later in their room, with Arya in her arms sleeping soundly. Catelyn quickly saw his resolve falter.

"I am sorry," he confessed. "I do not want to do this but I must." His honor called for it and both of them knew it. "Robert is my king and when he calls, I must answer."

"I know," Catelyn looked down at Arya. She was different from Sansa, her hair brown and eyes grey. She also had a very wild manner. If she ever needed something or wanted someone, she made it known to everyone through out the castle. Ned often called her Lyanna reborn, it was the only time he did not like grim when saying the name of his sister. He often called her his little wolf, in his sister's memory. That had proven she was more Stark than Tully, as if her looks were not enough.

Sansa looked like a mirror image of Catelyn when she was her age. They had the same eyes, the same hair and the same mannerisms. Her eldest daughter would grow up to be a fine Lady and make a man happy when she came of age.

Even her eldest, Robb, was more Tully than Stark when it came to his appearance. His hair mixed with that of his mother and father, whilst his face was long like that of a Trout. His mannerism, however, was that of a Stark. He mirrored his father when it came to temper, showing that he was as much Wolf as he was fish.

"Hello little one," Ned whispered. He ran his hand through his daughter's hair, she did nothing more than groan as she continued to dream.

"Let her sleep," Catelyn whispered. She remembered when she was a babe and how she often cried. That only her father could lull her back to sleep. Ever since Arya was a babe, she and Ned had been close.

Catelyn smiled at her husband as they just sat there and watched their daughter as she slept. They remained silent until she woke up and surprised at the sight of her parents staring at her.

Ned then left them as he began to make all of his preparations for the coming war. He told Catelyn to spare Arya from he truth and say something kinder instead. She did not know what she would say yet but decided that it could wait for later. Then, once he had finished his preparations, he spent his remaining time in Winterfell with his children. It was most difficult when dealing with Robb and Sansa. It was why he brought his wife with him. Since they were older, he eight and she five, he wanted to tell them about what was going to happen and why he was needed and the strength his wife had lent him had seen him through it.

Robb said he wanted to join him but Ned forbade it before Catelyn had the opportunity. She eyed her husband carefully as he talked his son down.

"War is no place for children," he said. "And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"But father you might-

"I will be fine son, besides, you're mother is going to miss me terribly. I could only imagine how she would miss you."

Those were the last words he said to the boy before he ran off, scared to lose his father and not being there to protect him. But what could a boy of eight do? Ned and Sansa exchanged even fewer words. She appeared to be mad with him saying that if he left, he should never come back and that she hated him.

"If those are the last words you tell me, Sansa, would you regret them," Ned said.

"No," Sansa replied. "I mean it. I hate you and I never want you to come back. If you go, never return."

"If that is what you wish," he kissed her forehead. Her tears streamed down her face.

Catelyn wanted to scold her daughter but would not need to.

Sansa rushed from her seat and clung to her father, sobbing into him and preventing him from leaving.

"Don't leave father," she pleaded. "Don't leave, don't leave."

Ned bent over and raised her off the ground and held her against his shoulder. Their daughter's tears began to stain his furs.

"I must, my little Sansa. But I will come back. I will come back."

"Promise me, father. Promise me and don't break it. Don't break it, promise me."

Catelyn could see her husband flinch at those words. He had heard them before but by the way Sansa had said them, it was from a painful time.

"I promise," was all he said. "I promise."

The next morning Ned had left for war, Catelyn stood by the gate to bid him farewell. She, like most of the other women, was bidding their men goodbye. Unlike the rest, she kept her emotions hidden. As Lady of Winterfell, she merely wished her Lord Husband a swift victory and return before she gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek, which he returned of one of his own. They had already had a proper goodbye the evening before where their actions said more than words ever could.

Ned then mounted his steed and rode off to meet his bannermen. "Until we meet again, My Lady." He rode through the gates and was followed by hundreds of those loyal to him and the crown.

Catelyn then approached the wall and rushed up the steps, as quickly as she dared, to watch him leave.

She continued to gaze until his last man was free from her sight. The Lady of Winterfell then went to attend to her children and make plans with Maester Luwin if the worst had come to pass. She could still feel the lingering warmth his kiss had left upon her.


	5. The World-Jon

**Hey there everyone. Chapters 1-4 have been revised, so if you haven't read the new version, you should give it a whirl. Again, thanks for reading. **

It was yet another blistering day in Qarth. Even now, as the sun was beginning to set, Jon Night could feel the heat eviscerating the sweat trickling down his face but it did nothing to stop the sweat that caused his clothes to stick to him and the padding he wore to stick to them. He may have been born and brought up in this heat but he could not help but feel today was worse than most. All days were hot, he would be stupid not to know that, but today felt worse than the others. That, however, did not make him this mad with rage.

His cousin had seen to that all too well.

Young Griff was the first person his own age that Jon ever spent time with. He was also the cause of most of his anger. He acted too proud at times as if he deserved more than what he had, like Jon, which was nothing more than the simplicities. They had their tutor, they had their home; which lacked space and caused most of them all to shares rooms except Melisandre, they had their lessons on swordplay and archery, they learned how to cook for themselves, all the languages spoken throughout Qarth; which consisted of every known tongue and other such lessons needed to survive.

_He lacked humility,_ as father put it.

Nevertheless, Young Griff was the best, and only, friend Jon had. It was something that he was grateful for but at times resented. Now was one of those rare occurrences.

"I am victorious," Young Griff said, in a declaring manner.

"Of course you are, cousin," Jon said. He shook his head as he approached the rack to put away his weapon. _The only reason you won is because I let you_, he thought as he removed his padding and placed it by his sword. His armor, as he often called it, was now faded and cracked, far from the rich dark brown it was once. It needed to be replaced.

Jon turned back to his cousin and saw him bowing before an invisible crowd. He could never bear to beat his cousin. He felt guilt afterwards, seeing him brooding and angry with himself. It was far worse than seeing the spectacle after his victory that made him laugh, which was the reason he often let him win.

The anger seemed to subside and was replaced with humility.

"I am the champion," Young Griff then declared. "I am the Champion of all of Westeros."

"Of course you are," Jon said. He then let out a huff of air before running his hands through his curls. Father always said he had the look of his mother, which was why his hair was black and his eyes grey. He said that it was a common trait in her family. At times he resented that, he wished he had his father's violet eyes and silver hair but was always told to be grateful that he is a spitting image of his mother, otherwise he would have nothing to remember her by.

"Of course you are." He said again. He wished they used blunted blades instead of the ones crafted from wood but Sture forbade such and told him that when he they were both of ten name days could they eventually use them and that they must use the wooden crafted blades for now. It was not so bad now, they had only two more left until then.

"Come now children," Melisandre called out. Their tutor was standing at the back entrance of their home and her long fiery hair was rolling off her shoulders, just like father had liked. "It's time for your dinner and night lesson."

Jon often wondered why father was always staring at Melisandre, it was not as if she was going to disappear. _It must have something to do with her chest_. That must have been the reason. He just wondered why father found her breasts so interesting since they did nothing more than feed babes.

A groaned escape the lips of both the boys as the raced inside. Young Griff may have been many things, Jon often thought, but he was still the best friend he had. A brother, he sometimes said.

The boys raced across the yard, pushing and shoving as boys often did, until Young Griff crossed the thresh hold.

"I am the fastest man alive," he sneered.

"Oh, shut up," Jon said. He smiled at his cousin, who returned the gesture. "And you're not a man yet, we still have some years to go."

"You have more than that to do," Melisandre said. She grabbed both boys by the shoulder and dragged them to the table for dinner.

They had a fried fish; it was simmered in a white sauce and lightly salted. They had small arrangements of fruits and vegetables to eat as well, plums and apples made the fruit while the vegetables consisted of carrots and onions. All three of them sat and enjoyed their meal, along with conversation.

Melisandre had asked the boys about their sword and archery lessons, she already knew the answers but just like to ask them. Jon knew she saw herself as a mother to him, she was the closest thing he had to one, and it was the same for Young Griff. Both cousins saw her as such and she had taken that role on willingly, even though she had not said.

"So when are they coming back," Jon had asked.

Two weeks had passed since both of their fathers and uncles had left them under the care of Melisandre. They said they would return that day but had not yet done so. Jon hated when his father did that, he did not like it when he left. He did not like it when his uncles left either but worried about his father more, if that made sense to him. He knew his father was faster and stronger than all three of his uncles but he could not help but worry. He felt it was his job as a son to worry for his father, just as it was his father's duty to worry about him.

Young Griff did not have such sentimentality for his father, neither did he for his mother. Besides dying his hair blue in her memory, he never spoke of her or even mentioned her name. Even Jon knew the name of his mother. Father said her name was Wylla and that he had met her in Pentos. From there they had married and left to Qarth. His two closest brothers, Sture and Cynall, followed them to their new home while Griff traveled on his own throughout the free cities. It was during that time when both Jon and Young Griff were born, just as both of their mother's had died.

"Soon, child," Melisandre wiped away the plum juice from her lips. "They should be here by tomorrow. I promise you that." Her motherliness soon passed, as she became a tutor once more, "Now finish your dinner. You two have much to learn."

The boys scarfed down the food as quickly as possible, this time Jon had beaten his cousin and smiled wildly in triumph. Soon their tutor cleared the table of any remnants of their dinner before starting their last lesson of the day.

Their lesson was on Aemon the Dragon Knight, Jon's favorite knight and hero. Melisandre asked them on what they knew of the knight, his cousin did not know much but he knew all that there was about him. He had explained to Young Griff on how he joined the Kingsguard at seventeen, the four kings he served under; Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, his father Viserys the II and his brother Aegon the IV. Then saying that the last king he served was better known as Aegon the Unworthy and how he nearly destroyed the seven kingdoms with his tastes. Melisandre smiled at the boy, which caused him to pause.

"What," Jon said.

"Oh nothing, Jon," she smiled. "I was hoping to teach the lesson but it seems you have taken it upon yourself to do so, please continue."

Her response caused him to blush to the shade of red her hair was but nonetheless he continued. He next talked of how Aemon once entered a tournament, and won, as the Knight of Tears, just to crown his sister, Naerys, the Queen of Love and Beauty so she would not have to deal with the humiliation of her husband's mistress being named so, once again. Jon then ended by saying how his hero had died, saving his brother from two Toynes, who sought retribution for their brother, Terrence's, execution.

"There was never a finer knight," Jon said, his throat was dry by this point. He had no idea as to how long he was talking. "None more nobler and none more honorable," he added.

Melisandre smiled, "What about Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning, was he not a fine and noble knight. It is said he was one of the finest swords and most honorable men to have live."

"He was," Jon answered quickly. "He was an honorable and just man, but he never endured what Aemon did. He was forced to live out his days, protecting his brother, a shameless man, who was married to the one woman he ever loved. There is no greater pain than that, I think."

Their tutor looked at him, beckoning him for more she added, "And what else do you have to say about that?"

"I say," Jon breathed in. He was nervous. He thought she would be mad if he said what he wanted.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Come on, out with it," Griff said. He seemed anxious and wanted to hear the answer.

Jon buckled under the pressure. "If I were Aemon, I would have killed my brother and have taken my love away. Spare her from a miserable and horrible life." His answer caused an uneasy silence. His cousin was not so anxious as before, he seemed quiet now. Their tutor was the same except a smile wry smile crept on her face.

"I think they had enough for the day, Melisandre."

Jon turned to see his father standing behind him and none of his uncles were with him. He had no idea as to how long he was there or how much he heard. It made him feel even tense, if that were possible. His heart was already beating fast and his palms felt wet from sweat, even his mouth-felt drier and his throat feeling like it was to crack.

Yet he did nothing more than assuring smile he always gave his son. Jon then noticed he had a spot of blood on his worn shirt, right above his left breast.

"Father," he said. Worried filled his voice. "You're hurt."

He noticed and looked down, he scoffed and smiled. "I'm fine son, had a little accident on the rode home. I fell off my horse and cut myself on a rock. This is nothing you needn't worry about. Go on, both of you clean up and go to bed." He turned to the tutor. "I need to speak to Melisandre, _privately_."

Jon and Young Griff both hesitated at first but nonetheless complied with what they were told. They both went to clean up and get ready for bed. They said their goodnights to Melisandre and father before going to bed.

Jon was close to sleep when Young Griff jumped on top of him.

"Wake up," he said. "I heard them talking, you'll want to hear this."

"What," Jon argued. He was in all honesty tired and wanted nothing more than sleep.

"Listen," he continued. "I heard uncle Ricant saying that he was going to be leaving later to one of the inns in the city and that he won't be back until the morrow with our uncles and my father."

"What does that mean for us?" Jon was interested now. He may have been the calm one of the two but he was never one to say no to an adventure, which he was sure was going to happen.

"It means I heard him mention the name of the inn he said he was going to." Even in the darkness Jon could see his smile. "It's by the docks, we can go there and see what they're up to."

"You know what happens if we get caught leaving again, don't you?" He had unpleasant memories of the thrashings uncle Sture had given them during a _lesson_ they had half a year ago. He said it was to teach the boys how to be strong but Jon felt it was because they threw out scrapes of the mutton uncle Cynall had made, it was awful by all accounts. He was not even sure if it was actual mutton, it could have been rat for all he knew. It was the most vile thing he had ever eaten, it made him grateful Melisandre had often cooked. At least she knew how.

"Of course I do, I still remember the mutton."

"Good, so what do we do?" Jon was all for this ploy now.

"Just do as I say, when I say it."

With that, the two boys waited until they heard the door open and Melisandre and Ricant said farewell until the next time they met. Young Griff then led Jon to their window and they quickly, but quietly, climbed out before their tutor could check on them.

When they reached the street, they had looked to see if Jon's father was still there. He was not so they continued down and headed for the docks to where, according to Young Griff, they should be there within an hour's time and be back before they are missed.

When they had finally reached the docks, Jon's feet were sore from their walk. He wished his shoes were better than what they were but did not complain. He had more than most and did not see it fit to moan about something others did not have.

"Is this it," Jon asked. He motioned towards a place where many men and women, including a few children, were crowded.

"No," Young Griff said. "That's a pot shop. It's this way." He motioned for his cousin to follow.

Jon had heard of them. Those establishments were known for their bowls of brown, it made him cringe when he thought of it. Such food made him grateful for Cynall's mutton; at least he did not have to worry if he was eating another person or their shit for that matter.

They walked a few more moments until Young Griff motioned his hand to stop. Jon did and saw what must have been the inn he was talking of. It was no mere inn. It was more of a brothel. He had never been in one but did know what they looked like. Women standing half naked, some naked like the day they were born and some even had men and others were far worse. There someone could have his or her hearts desire, for the right matter of coin.

"I thought you said this was an inn, not a brothel. Why would they go into a brothel," Jon asked. He knew his father and uncles were honorable men, they would never do something like that…_but they were men_, Melisandre had told him once and sometimes they give into their own desire.

"I don't know," Young Griff said. "And besides, people use inns and brothels for the same thing. For fucking," he was lucky neither their kin nor Melisandre had heard that.

"Let's go back," Jon argued. "I don't want to go in there."

"What are you a craven?" He tensed at those words, Jon may have been certain things but he was not a coward.

"No," he argued. "But I'm not stupid, we should…" He stopped as he heard familiar voices.

It was uncle Sture and uncle Griff. The two boys hid in the shadows as they watched the two men pass them. They were wearing black robes and had hoods raised, to hide their faces.

Jon wondered why they would hide their faces; there was no one who could possibly want to hurt them. _Only people that were hunted would hide themselves in cloaks_, Jon thought. It was like in the books he read in which a hero would wear a cloak to hide themselves from their enemies. Now he had to find out.

They waited for the two men to disappear into the brothel before talking again.

"What do you think they're doing," Young Griff asked.

"I don't know," Jon whispered. "But I want to find out," he raced out from the shadows. He heard his cousins feet following him and soon they made their way into the brothel, it was worse than what he had thought before.

The place was loud and uncomfortable. People were too close and it reeked of something foul. People often cursed at one another, they often asked to fuck or suck. Jon did not want to know the meaning of the latter. As they continued through the establishment, no one seemed to head them no mind or did not even notice them. They pushed passed men so fat they had two chins and others that were so short they could be mistaken for a child, which my have been what the boys were mistaken for.

After what felt like hours in the crowd, they finally saw something familiar. There was a man with blue hair standing next to a man with grey on a second level.

"I see uncle Sture and Griff," Jon said. "Come on."

"I'm coming," Young Griff said. Jon thought his cousin must not have seen them because he followed him to the stairs that led to the next floor.

When they reached the top, the two men had disappeared.

"Where are they," Jon asked.

"I don't know," Young Griff responded. "Maybe in there or in there," he motioned toward two doors, neither of which was remotely close to where the men had stood.

"No," Jon told him. "I think they are in there." He led his cousin towards the door at the end of the hall. He figured they must have been there.

As they approached the door they heard moaning and shouting from both women and men alike. Jon wished he could say that he did not hear what they were shouting but alas he could not. It made him regret learning so many tongues.

When they reached the door, Jon found the courage to lean his ear against it. He wanted to hear what was happening. After a few heartbeats, he heard nothing so he kept it there. Still he heard the same.

"There's nothing," he told Young Griff. "I can hear nothing."

"What," his cousin argued. "Let me listen." When he leaned his head against the door, he received the same response. "Nothing, damn. Let's go and see what's happening."

Jon tried to stop him but it was too late. His cousin already had a hand on the knob and opened the door.

"I figured they would lock it at least," he said without fear. His eyes then widened as he peered throughout the room. "Can you believe this," he whispered. "This room is almost half the size of our home."

Young Griff was right, Jon thought. This room was large and lavish and probably bigger than half their home. The bed in the middle of it was the largest he had ever seen. It had golden embroideries in the blankets as well as the curtains that covered the windows. Even the carpet had such stitching. The rest of the room was filled with lavish colors of red and green. The bed was red, along with the carpet, like that of blood or ruby. Then curtains were green like the Dothraki Sea, as was described in one of his books.

Jon was close to admitting defeat until he heard a faint sound, like outside, it was the voices of his two uncles.

"Quiet," he said. "I hear something." He then motioned towards the wall on his left and his cousin followed.

They both put their ears against it and listened, both of them afraid to draw breath.

"How goes the Greyjoy Rebellion," Sture asked.

"Failing," an unknown voice said. It was soft and half whispering. "I fear it will be over within… moons." Jon barely heard it.

"Damn, Balon," Griff cursed. "Just because they have a fleet they think they are unconquerable." He spoke much louder.

"Listen," another strange voice said. This one sounded gruffer than the other stranger's. "Even if… successful, we… the true…the throne. I have Aery's…Pentos…. have Rhaegar's…Qarth." Jon did not know what to make of what they said. He turned to Young Griff, hoping he might have but he seemed to be just as confused.

"We must…time…we can…the…heir…save the kingdom." The first unknown voice spoke up again.

"What, what kingdom." Young Griff said.

Jon knew he was too loud and cringed. "Run," he mouthed. He could already hear the wall moving, the secret door opening.

The two boys attempted to race out of the room before they could be caught but were too late.

Right at the front of the closed door Jon's father stood with uncle Cynall, both men were wearing a grey look. He did not know how they had even managed to get in so quietly.

Both Jon and Young Griff knew that there was now no escape. They turned to where the wall once was and four men had walked out. Griff and Sture stood next to two very large men. One of them was bald and plump. He bore a bright red robe. The second man was larger; Jon was surprised he could even walk. He must have had five chins. He bore a golden yellow robe with red embroidery; his hair was of the same gold color. He was, by far, more fearsome than his companion. His eyes said nothing more than greed.

"Are these the boys," the bald one asked.

"Yes," Jon's father said. "These are they."

Jon feared what would be said next but was instead bewildered.

"Hello my princes," the bald man said. "My name is Varys and this is my companion Illyrio." The larger one nodded his head. "And we are your humble servants."


	6. A Just End-Ned

The Greyjoy Rebellion had come to an end and Ned was relieved to see it through. He could not stand to be away from Winterfell for much longer. He had missed Cat and the children far too much. _It was not fair to them_, he often thought. It was not fair that he had to go to war and leave them to worry. Honor was not fair and it had cost him more than he would like to admit, even to his dear wife and children but one day they would know. The Lord of Winterfell would soon be home and he could not wait until to return.

Besides the short war he had fought in, Ned did not like being by the sea. He felt that it was too wet and that there was not enough ground around his feet. Then there was the sea air. It was far different from that in the North. It reeked of fish, before at least. Now Pyke, after its siege, had the stink of shit and rotting dead, as well as fish.

The siege was not strenuous but rather fast; the Ironmen had few men left and most of their raiders were dead and most of their true warriors were either dead or captured. Amongst those who died were Balon Greyjoy's sons. Rodrik, his eldest was amongst those who had died at Seagard, slain by its Lord of Seagard himself, Jason Mallister. Then his second son, Maron, had died along the walls during the siege. Then amongst those that were captured were his brothers. Both Victarion and Euron Greyjoy had been kept hostage by Stannis Baratheon. The sternest of the Baratheon brood wanted to kill both Greyjoys but instead kept them as hostages, under the advice from a man known as the Onion Knight. They would both be returning to Pyke within the next few weeks.

Then Balon's youngest brother, Aeron, was being held by Tywin Lannister. Rumor had been spread that the Old Lannister kept the youngest Greyjoy in the cells of Casterly Rock. The youngest Kraken was returning to his home, being escorted by the Old Lion and a host of his bannermen. Tywin was also brining the other prisoners he had kept, as a testament of good faith. Something the Lion never did unless ordered or saw as a gain for his family, it was the former instead of the latter.

Besides dealing with the Greyjoy Uprising, the last seven months were filled with the stink of bad air and battle and it had taken much more for Ned to see it through victoriously. Balon Greyjoy did not surrender when his eldest son had died, neither did he when the King's army was at Pyke demanding his surrender. The capture of his brothers and annihilation of his fleet did not see to a resolution. He did not bend the knee when Robert had threaten to kill his last two children, a short time after his second had died. It was only when his life was threatened that the Old Kraken had surrender, the damned fool worried for himself more than anything.

"He deserves to die," Robert had told him the morning after Balon had bent the knee. It was during their breakfast in his tent. They ate fried fish with bacon burnt to black. They had fried bread and a dark ale as well. "They all need to die." The King's face jiggled as he shouted. He no longer appeared as he had eight years ago, there was less muscle and more fat on him but not enough for him to be considered such.

It was not to hard for Ned to believe, Robert did nothing but eat drink and whore. The rumors of King's Landing had reached Ned up in Winterfell and he was not suprised in the slightest when he had heard. The man had nothing but war to look forward to. He was no politician and he could not use coin wisely if the Kingdom depended on it, which it did. The Stark feared how much debt the kingdom was in, he knew that there was no if. It was how much.

"He and all his kin should be sent to the bottom of the ocean." The Demon of the Trident still had the same fiery temper as his youth, despite his change of appearance.

"No," Ned said. "I agree he deserves to die but we should keep him alive." He could not stand the king's mouth. When it did not reek of what he ate or drank, he often talked too much and with little conscious.

"Then what do you think we should do, let him continue his reign. Should we give him the throne?"

"That is not what I meant," Ned defended. "I meant there are other thing we could, I have alternatives. As soon as Tywin Lannister arrives, you shall see what it is that I have planned."

"Of course," Robert groaned. Barely into the morning he was near piss drunk. He was far from his days of glory. "Let the Lion of Lannister solve all our problems, I am the King, Ned. Me! I am the King! Not gold shitting Tywin Lannister but me!"

"That is not what I meant, Your Grace." Ned took in a deep breath. "Allow me to explain what it is that I wish for us to do." With that the King settled down and listened to the council that the Warden of the North had offered. He had no one else to listen to, Jon Arryn was back in King's Landing dealing with the business of running the Seven Kingdoms and there was no other man in all of Westeros that he would listen to, not even his brothers Stannis and Renly.

After Ned finished explaining his arrangement to the King, he waited for his response.

Robert was first silent and looking as serious as a King could. Then he snorted, "That's barbaric," he said. "Why would you want something like that done?"

"It's effective," Ned assured. "We do not wipe out the line of the Krakens but neither do we let them go unpunished. That way their line lives and they fear the crown." _And me, _he added in his thoughts.

The King remained silent and for a moment the Lord of Winterfell felt as if he had failed in planning. Then the Robert began to chuckle until in turned into howling laughter.

"By the Gods, Ned," his face flushed red from both astonishment and drink. "I don't even think old Tywin could think of something like that."

It was then decreed, by Robert Baratheon, that Theon Greyjoy would become the ward of Eddard Stark of Winterfell. In reality, he would be his hostage so that if the Krakens threatened rebellion again, he would be the first of them to die before the rest followed and the Iron Islands be renamed the Isle of Skulls.

Two weeks had passed since then and now Ned found himself in this position, staring out into Iron Man's Bay with the sound of the sea keeping him company. He took small comfort sitting on the rocks with their misshapen crevices dug into his backside and made it uncomfortable for him, yet he did not complain. He said nothing. He just simply looked out into the sea and watched the waves collide with the rocks. It was not his Godswood but at least it allowed him to think, as if he were there. Allow him to escape from what he had done and what he was about to do.

It was during this time he found himself thinking on the war that had been won. About how it was close to an end and the cost it would take to do so. It was then he thought of those who had fought and bled with him during through it all.

Lord Jon Umber was one such man, better known as Greatjon. His sword spoke all the words that needed saying. The cruel and misshapen longsword had cut through many Ironborn during the rebellion and laughed at their misfortune afterwards.

There was also Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. He had proven himself during the rebellion. He had earned his knightship and could return home with his head high and his father proud. Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, could not ask for a better son.

Yet the most ruthless and efficient of them was Lord Roose Bolton. He was a man to be both feared and respected, Ned had learned. The man left nothing to chance and ruled his House with fear and cunning. He still remembered when the Leech Lord had suggested they killed Ser Barristan Selmy after Robert defeated Rhaegar at the trident. It caused the Usurper to go red with rage before he sent his personal physician to attend to the great knight. He said he was too honorable to kill.

Ned felt Rhaegar was too honorable to kill and that the gods had it wrong. It should have been the Dragon Prince leading this force, not the Whoremonger King. He must have had over ten bastards by now. Rhaegar did not even have one; he took instead for himself a second wife. One whom he loved dearly...Ned only wished he had lived. There would not have been a rebellion if he had, amongst other things.

"Ned!"

The Lord of Winterfell came back to the present turned round to see his brother, Benjen and with him he brought Jory Cassel and his uncle Rodrick. All three were wearing leather plate over chainmail and the Sigil of House Stark on their breast.

"Yes brother," Ned left his thought and returned to the present. "Has he arrived yet?"

"He has brother," Benjen said. Ned was glad his brother was still with him and not up at the Wall. He needed him by his side when he brought back Lyanna and he still needed him now, not for the grieving of course. He had cried all the tears he could and more. There was nothing more left for him to mourn, just as there was nothing at the wall for his brother; who was now the Captain of his guard.

"Lord Tywin is here, my Lord," Jory said. The young Cassel was a spitting image of his father at that age, Martyn often said. The old soldier always boasted on how his son is a much more capable blade than he ever was. "And he has all the Ironborn he took captive."

"Very good," Ned said. "Summon Lord Bolton for me, tell him it is time for him to fulfill the task only he could do proper." He let out a huff of air. "Come brother, take me to, Tywin." With that the Lord of Winterfell followed Benjen to meet with Lion of Lannister, whilst the Cassel men left to go find the Leech Lord.

Tywin Lannister was standing with his bannermen; amongst them were his brother Kevan and his son Jaime, the Kingslayer. All members of the Lannister family were dressed in gold and red plate armor and their Lannister Lion decorated their breasts. Their bannermen were fashioned in a better quality red plate armor and wore helms covering most of their faces, leaving only space between their eyes and jaw.

None of them had yet noticed Ned until he made his presence felt.

"Lord Tywin," he called. "It's good to see you after all this time."

The Lannister turned, showing the Lord of Winterfell his aged face. The wrinkles were present but had not made it known for the rest of the world, he kept a stubble of blonde hair; no more than three days old by Ned's count and kept the hair upon his head short as not to reveal his large forehead and balding.

"Lord Stark," Tywin said. His emotions may have been cold but the courtesy was custom. "I hear your bannermen and that of the Baratheons all but wiped out the Krakens." He said it loud enough for the prisoners his men were dragging upon the shore to hear, they all had smiles upon their faces thinking they were now safe. "I would like to offer you my congratulations, that of my family's and that of both Casterly Rock and Lannisport on your overwhelming victory."

"Thank you, My Lord," Ned bowed his head. As was the custom. "But I need no thanks, this was merely my duty to the kingdom."

"If you'll permit me," Tywin then asked. "Why did you stay Robert's hand? They had no more resistance to offer you, why not end their line?"

Ned knew he would ask him that. He was Tywin Lannister, of course he would ask that. It was also the reason why he had made his arrangements. "I do not regret staying Robert's hand, Lord Tywin. I only did so because it would be unwise to wipe out an entire House that we may have need of, one day."

"Why of course," the old Lannister had said. Ned could feel the annoyance beaming off the man; he had wanted nothing more than to wipe out the house as he had done to the House Reyne when they had rebelled against their Liege Lord. He would always be remembered for his ruthlessness and his cruelty. It was, after all, why his men would sing the Rains of Castamere before battle, as a reminder.

The Sack of King's Landing had only cemented it further. Dorne surely remembered how he had ordered the Mountain, Gregor Cleagane, to murder Princess Elia and her two children. He was surprised that Sunspear still had not risen in rebellion against the crown. They were probably bidding their time like he was.

"I know you disagree with my suggestion, Lord Tywin but I assure you," as if on command, the two Cassels had reappeared with a man of paste like skin in black ringmail and a pink cloak draped across his shoulders. "I have something else planned, and it is for these men."

"Lord Stark," Lord Bolton said as he approached the two men. "Lord Tywin." His voice near silence, like he was known for. He then bowed his head.

"Greetings, Lord Bolton," Tywin returned. He turned his face towards Ned and his eyes opened, surprised to see such a man. "Lord Stark, if you'll permit me, but what is Lord Bolton doing here?"

"He's here to deal with the prisoners," he replied. "Is that not right, Lord Bolton?"

"Why of course, my Lord." he bowed his head once more. He was attempting to use his white eyes to pierce through the two men but neither of them flinched, both knowing the man the Lord of the Dreadfort was. He was the sort of man kept in check when he was appeased. To do so meant letting him have his way at times and using his talents to their fullest capabilities.

"Are those the prisoners," Roose motioned his head towards the line of them being escorted by the Lannister men. His eyes wandered towards them and they shook in fear.

"Now," Tywin kept his full attention on Ned. Jaime, Kevan and their men all seemed to have the same attention toward the northerner as well. "What does he mean by that?"

"Forgive me, Lord Tywin," Roose spoke up. "But I am afraid that, by King Robert's command mind you, I am to have full custody of all your prisoners and administer judgment upon them."

"Is that right," Tywin actually sounded surprised. Ned judged by his tone.

"It is, Lord Tywin. Lord Bolton is to take all of the Ironborn captives you have and give them a suitable punishment and it was under my council, of course." Ned then saw Tywin Lannister form a smile upon his face, at least what he had passed for one. It was rather a displeasing look.

"I will not keep you, Lord Bolton," the old Lannister began to take his leave but paused. "That one right there," he pointed towards the prisoner at the front of the line. his hair and beard were both brown and mangled like the rest of the prisoners who wore only rags like him. "His name is Aeron Greyjoy, the youngest of Balon's brothers. See that he receives his judgment last."

"Of course, my Lord." Roose then turned to his bannermen, which Ned had now noticed. "Take them and bring them to the center of Pyke, we shall administer our justice there."

Soon close to two-dozen men, with a flayed man upon their armor, went and took the Lannister prisoners, who were now that of their Lord.

"Stop," one of the prisoners shouted.

"I don't want to die!"

"Don't let them kill me!"

"Lord Stark," this one was Aeron. "I don't want to be flayed. Please, don't let them. Did you not pass a law saying flaying was outlawed, Lord Stark? Did you not pass such a law?"

"Aye, yes I did." Ned turned to Roose. "But that is only in the North and we are not in the North." As he walked away his his men, he heard the Ironmen begging and pleading with Lord Bolton. Each of them was asking for the mercy of one of the few men in Westeros who had not known how to use it.

When their cries and shouts faded, Ned began to wonder how their victims had felt. All the people they had killed and set a flame at Lannisport, all the women who were raped by them and those that they had taken as slaves. Although he could do nothing to change the past, Ned could at least have the Ironmen suffer. Have a few of them suffer a worse pain than the one they had caused, a fate worse by ten fold.

That night Ned found himself laughing as he prepared to return home. _I am just like Tywin. _He chuckled, _And Roose Bolton is my Gregor Cleagane. _

**Yeah, I know it's a bit dark what I did but after reading a Clash of Kings I was kinda annoyed Ned didn't used Roose. I mean, if you have a lord like that, take advantage of it. Like before, Favorite and Follow and if you can please leave a review. I'd like to thank those of you who have already and would like to hear from more of you. **


	7. A New World-Ricant

**Here is the new version of chapter seven. Hope you enjoy it. **

Ricant Night watched everything unravel before him. His son now knew the truth of his parentage and that the man he had been calling father for his whole life was not his father at all but Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning. The confession had torn him apart. He saw his son break down and cry himself hysterical. He had to be carried home and refused Ricant from touching him. In the end, it was Sture took the boy in his arms and carried him throughout their trek.

Young Griff did not allow himself to appear as his brother. He walked with his head held high and next to Connington. He scarcely looked at the man he had been calling for his whole life.

Then when they had reached their house, Ricant told his son that his real name was Jon Targaryen of House Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Connignton then told the truth to Young Griff and that his son what not his but Rhaegar's as well. Aegon Targaryen the VI of his name, the son of Rhaegar and Elia Martell. Since Jon was the younger, it meant Aegon was the rightful heir to the throne.

He accepted the responsibility of reclaiming the throne, much to everyone's surprise. Of the two boys he had always seemed to be the more scheming and conniving one. His brother on the other hand did not share those feelings.

Jon was the more compassionate and caring of the two, he never did anything rash or stupid. He always thought things through to the end. It must have been why the boy had run off, leaving them for the confines and comforts of his room. Jon locked the door and refused entrance to all of them but Melisandre.

His tutor had managed to soothe him enough to allow her entrance. They had been there for a very long time.

That was how Ricant, Ser Arthur, had found himself where he was now, thinking of the past, of the future and of everything else. He wanted to distract himself from Jon. It was tearing him to pieces, although he would never say it aloud. Arthur wanted to say that it was because he wanted to give the boy space but knew that was not it. So he began to think of his son's brother.

Ser Arthur knew that Aegon was not like Jon in the slightest. He acted with greed at times and at other times with cruelty and malice. There was one day he bore witness to the boy beating a dog to death. He said the dog tried to bite him, so he killed him instead. If anything the dog was hungry and had looked to the boy for food, he carried with him a sweet cake and merely chucked it at the ground after he left the dog.

Arthur remembered a similar situation, one in which Jon was the boy and he had found a dog in the same condition. Not having food on his person, he asked his father for a few coppers, which he gave without thinking, and rushed to the butcher's shop down the street. He returned with two small pieces of chicken and tossed them both to the starving dog.

Arthur did not remember what that dog had looked like but could not help but feel that it was the same small dog that Aegon had beaten to death.

"How long is he going to be like this," Sture had asked. "The boy can't keep himself locked in his room for his whole life." He appeared worried about the boy, which he should. Ser Gerold had a hand in raising the boy. He protected him the day he was born and had been the one who had first gotten him to walk.

"I don't know," Ser Oswell said. "He can be pretty stubborn. Remember when he refused to call me papa, said only this one here was papa and I was uncle." He motioned his head to his sworn brother.

Ser Arthur did remember that day, Jon was no more than 3 and refused to call anyone else papa. He ran into his arms and said, "This is my papa. He is my papa."

The memory wanted the Sword of Morning to break down but he could not do so, not when his son needed him to be strong for them both.

"He will be all right I trust," Lord Varys whispered. The Spider was still the Master of Whispers in the Seven Kingdoms just serving under a new King. He said it was his job to serve the realm the best way he could and not the one who sat on the Iron Throne.

"He will," Ser Gerold said. "The boy may look small but he's tough."

_Jon was much more than tough_, Ser Arthur thought. "He is just shocked by all of this," he said. "Yesterday he thought he was nothing more than the son of a merchant, now he knows is a Prince, forgive me my lord but my son is just a boy of eight. He is well within his right to have some time to himself."

The eunuch let a smile spread across his face, "Why of course, Ser Arthur, the boy is entitled to that but if I may, why is it that you call yourself his father? I believe his father is Rhaegar, just like young Aegon here. Why is it that you call him your son still, I can understand as to why before but why would you continue to lie to him?" He spoke in such a soft voice, he had more than earned the name the Lord of Whispers by the way he spoke alone. His ability with his _little birds_ merely added to his skill.

"I am his father," Ricant spoke before he could think. "I was the one who Lord Stark charged to raise the boy. I was the one who held him as a babe, I was the one who fed him once his whet nurse had left." In reality she had been killed, in order to keep the secret, Ser Oswell had seen to that. H said that he had gifted her to a pot shop. "I held him in my arms when he was ill, I was the one who read to him as he slept, I was the one he called papa as a small child and I am the man he calls father now that he is growing into a man. So don't you dare say he is not my son, I am more a father to him than any of my brothers and more than Rhaegar could have been."

When he had stopped, Ser Arthur then realized what he had said. His words could be considered treason, if the Targaryens were still in power but luckily for him they were nothing more than commoners at this now and far from their former glory, like he and the rest of the ghosts who had accompanied him.

"Most would call that treason, Sword of Morning," Ser Gerold said. "But sometimes the truth is such."

"Aye," Cynall said. "You speak the truth, you are more of a father to the boy than any of us. Rhaegar would have been proud of you, I know he would have been a good father to him but he would not have been devoted to the boy as you have been."

"Such words are treason." It was then that Jon Connignton had found his tongue. He had remained silent for most of the affair. "How dare you judge Rhaegar, he was your Prince. He would have been King if not for the usurper."

Connington was always fond of Rhaegar, too much in fact. Some in the court said that he was in love with the man. There were also rumors of him saying that Elia was an unworthy wife for her husband, with her being sickly for most of her life and only able to give him two children. One more and it would have meant her life.

"If what I say is treason," Ser Arthur mumbled. "Then what does it make of you, were you not the one who said Elia was unworthy of Rhaegar? What could you have given him, except two holes to fill his cock with?"

The knight did not regret the words he said and neither did he regret what had happened next.

When Connington charged him he merely cocked back his hand and sent his fist flying towards him. The former Hand of the King fell to the ground and his skull hit the stone floor hard, causing him to lose consciousness.

"That is one way to deal with matters," Varys said. He seemed unaffected by what had transpired.

"Unethical but effective," Illyrio added. The tone in his voice had him appear indifferent to the situation, like his companion.

"I never did like him," Ser Oswell said.

Ser Arthur turned to Ser Gerold. The White Bull just nodded his head.

"I never have either," Aegon spoke. "He was too much of a shit for me too-

Ser Oswell's hand met the Crown Prince's head. "Watch your tongue boy. That man raised you as his own son when he did not have to. He could have let you die but he didn't. Just like Varys did when he saved your life. So don't you go act all mighty because you're nothing more than a boy who thinks himself a king."

Aegon the looked to the knight, he had a look of anger in his face. The boy was definitely a Targaryen. He looked just like the Mad King Aerys whenever he was about to burn a man alive, or anything for that matter.

"Arthur," Melisandre called. She was Jon's mother. Although Lyanna had loved her son with all her heart in her few moments with the boy, Melisandre had taken on the role for the boy in the years she had known him. More than once she told him not to call her mother, despite the smile she bore when he said she was. "Jon said he wanted to talk to you."

The Ser Arthur turned to face the tutor. After Illyrio had come to their home, he greeted Melisandre by name and she returned the gesture. He had realized that she was hired the man to tutor the boy. It was no wonder that she came so recommended to him; the man must have had his spies do that. He and Varys had them everywhere, it seemed.

"Thank you," Arthur said. "I'll go and see him," he turned to the woman and gave her a smile. This one had been for more than kindness and she had noticed. Melisandre had given him the same smirk in return.

Arthur then left everyone as they were and found himself in front of Jon's room.

"Son," he called. He had no response.

"Son," he asked once more.

Still the boy had not responded.

"Jon, Melisandre said that you wanted to speak with me. You know that you can, I am your father. You can tell me anything."

He felt a shift in the door as it opened. He looked down to see Jon. His eyes were red and his face stained with the tears he had cried. Arthur never felt more pain in his life as he looked upon the boy. No sword or spear, no axe or arrow had come close to the pain he felt at the sight of Jon in that state. Not even when he heard of Ashara's death, did he feel that much pain.

"Can I," Jon asked. "Can I tell you anything? The same way you told me who I was? The same way you told me that I was not your son?" He motioned his hand to slam the door but Arthur was quicker. He stopped the door before it was even close.

"Please son," he pleaded. "You said that you wanted to talk, I'm here now and I will listen to what you have to say, no matter how painful it is for me to hear or for how long it takes you to say it, I will listen to you."

"Alright," Jon tried to sound like a knight. He failed miserably as he let Arthur in and he closed the door to give them privacy.

"I am sorry, Jon," Arthur said. "I did not want you to find out like that." He spoke truthfully. "I am sorry."

"Why did you lie to me," Jon demanded. "Why have you and my uncles lied to me all these years? Are they even my uncles?"

"In regards to Sture and Cynall, they are not your kin by blood but have loved you as such since you were a babe. As to why we lied to you," he knew the truth would hurt the boy and decided to give him something less painful. He was still too young to know. "It was to keep you safe, that's why we did what we did. That is why we lied to you. There are those, the new King," he paused. Anger flashed through him for a moment before calming, Jon did not notice. "The Usurper," he corrected, "In particular, who want to hurt you. Some of them even want to kill you. We knew we could not let you know who you were so young, so we decided to keep it from you until you came of age at fourteen. We had agreed to this the day you were born, the same day your mother died and your uncle gave you a chance to live."

"My uncle?"

"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, he is your uncle. He and a host of men loyal to him came upon us at the Tower of Joy. It was there where your mother was held, kept safe from the Usurper, a man so obsessed with a woman who bore no love for him he destroyed an entire kingdom. Me and my sworn brothers were ordered to keep you and your mother safe until your father had returned from the Trident… We learned through whispers that he had been bested and so all our hopes had died…but we kept to our oaths and swore to defend you and your mother, to the death if it was necessary."

"Who was my mother," Jon asked, while looking up.

Arthur realized he had not yet told them boy his mother's name, not even when telling him stories of Rhaegar did he mention Lyanna, not once in all these years. He realized it was because of Jon's eyes, he could still remember those same eyes staring at him in the tower long ago.

"Why her name was Lyanna Stark, of course. She was your uncle's only sister and your father's Lady and True Love. He fell for her at the Tourney of Harrenhal and she with him. He crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. It was there that it all had begun…"

Arthur then went on to tell the boy the story of how his birth father and mother had run off together, both of them leaving a world they were nothing more than pawns in. That they had married in secret and his father using an old Targaryen of taking a second wife. How their forbidden love had created two things, a child and a war.

"So I am the reason so many are dead, I am the reason the kingdom burned."

"No," Arthur rushed to the boy and placed his hands on his shoulders. "Never say that, it was never your fault. It was Brandon Stark's fault, your uncle who died in the war. If he had only kept his temper in check, you would be a prince and your mother and father would be ruling the kingdoms together."

"What about my other uncle, what came of him?"

"Ned Stark is still the Warden of the North but he is no longer the close friend the king had once called brother. He just serves him and regrets it each day. He was the one who sent us on our way and allowed all of us to start a new life."

"How do you know, I mean how do you know he hates the king?"

_Because he told me,_ Arthur wanted to say. But decided not to. "Because that man is far from just, if anything he is Aegon the Unworthy born anew."

"And I am the Dragon Knight to stop him," Jon did not ask. His face flashed with new mirth, hope it seemed. The boy always looked up to the Dragon Knight, like Arthur did when he was a boy, he wanted to be just like him he so often said. "And my brother is the rightful king," he did not ask. He said it with pride.

_Not a True King like you, but merely by right,_ Arthur thought. "That he is."

"Then I will serve like Aemon before me." Jon then wiped the dried tears from his face and looked upon Arthur. "And be a great knight like him and the Sword of Morning, my father." He then rushed toward Arthur and wrapped his arms around him, afraid that if he let go he would be rejected.

No such thing would happen as Ricant grabbed on to the boy and let the tears in his eyes fall free, now knowing the true love held between a father and a son. He would see that his son got everything he deserved and those who took it from him received it as well.


	8. Snakes and Dragons-Jon

**Third update in about 30 hours, I am on a role. Hope you like this new chapter. A near and dear man will be making an appearance here. This is where the story really begins. Let me know what you think and thanks for reading. I own nothing. This was all created from the wonderful world George R.R. Martin gifted to us.**

Jon watched his brother smile and jape with their family for it had been a good day thus far. Five years had passed since the two brothers had learned of their heritage and had accepted the fact that they were of the Targaryen line. Aegon, who was now celebrating his fourteenth name day, had been more accepting and had taken on the role of the Crown Prince better than expected, if he was of the Usurper's loins. He did nothing more than practice and talk of fighting before he would go off into the night and drink and whore until coming home the next morning ready to do it again. He was an insult to everything they were meant to stand for but was the one Jon had called brother nonetheless.

Jon, although of his blood, did not partake in such foolishness. He stuck with what he had known all his life. He continued with his studies on the world and mainly that on the History of Westeros diligently, he practiced the ways of combat until he grew tired he could scarcely life his arms afterwards and would end his days by practicing the various tongues of the Seven Kingdoms. It was more than a knight should know, he knew that, but felt he should always attempt to be better than he was before. He still liked to think of himself as the Dragon Knight reborn but then thought, what did it make his brother?

Was his brother Aegon the next Aegon the Unworthy?

But those thoughts, Jon decided, were best for him to keep to himself and bring forth time. Right now, it was his brother's nameday and it was time for celebration and festivity. Not fret or be angry.

Jon watched as the celebration began to unfold, not so much a celebration as dinner.

Lain before everyone on the table was an exquisite assortment of food. There was a salad; it was crafted from spinach and other greens as well as apple slices and a sweet sauce made of peaches that decorated it. Two roasted chickens were served as well; covered in a lemon sauce that left the meat so tender it melted while being eaten. Roasted carrots in honey were served next to golden potatoes decorated by a sweet plum sauce; it left a sweet lingering taste in Jon's mouth as he ate them. It must have been especially good to Cynall since he had more than all the others.

Jon had still taken to calling the Kingsguard by the name he had known them as. He still called Ser Oswell the Bat uncle Cynall, just as he still called Ser Gerold, the White Bull, his honorable uncle Sture. Then Ser Arthur, the Sword of Morning, still retained the title of father. Jon could not see them in any other life, even though he was close to becoming a man, in only a few months he would be a man but that was merely by age. It would take him longer to truly become one.

Jon knew that he had grown and had gotten stronger as the years had passed, both more so than Aegon. He even looked more of a man. His face was getting older and hair was beginning to make its presence known on his face but he still felt far from being a man. Jon still felt the role of a boy by living in a house with such great and honorable men, who made him feel so small compared to one of them had live such rich and exciting lives but what had Jon done?

Besides be trained and groomed by them.

Nothing. Jon had done nothing so far with his life and had hoped that it would not be so for long and could change this world. Like Aemon before him.

"Jon," Melisandre had called to him. "Stop staring at your food and eat it, it tastes worse when cold."

The tutor was his mother by all rights now. She had raised him since he was a small boy and was responsible for him knowing nearly everything that he did. It was strange, however, that she still looked the same in every way now as she did eight years ago when he first met her.

"Of course, Melisandre," Jon said. "My apologies." He then reached for his fork and continued to eat but not before reaching for a piece of fresh bread and dunking it in melted butter. It was delicious.

He looked up again to see Melisandre lost in conversation with his father. After many years of him watching her, she had enough and cornered him one day, Jon had witness this happening and could still remember seeing his father blush bright red.

"Well," she said. "Will you have me or not? You have looked at me for years, I know very well what that look in your eyes mean. Well then, what say you?"

Jon did not expect to see his father dip her down and envelop her lips with his own. Neither did he expect him to take her then and there. That was when he found it necessary to be scarce and leave them to their lovemaking. He knew what they did then; just like what he knew they did every night. They were not as quiet as they thought they were.

Sture and Cynall merely laughed it off before they followed their nephew and would leave the house during those times, giving the pair as much comfort as they could spare.

For Kingsguard, they did not keep to their vows very well but it was not as if they needed to. They were men and Jon had grown to know what women had could offer a man between her legs. He often wished to join Sture and Cynall as they ventured to the brothels on rare occasion but was somehow always against it. Jon wanted to do so when he felt right for doing it and not because it was simply present for him to do. He did not want to mirror Aegon and took to keeping himself disciplined.

"Come now, try this," his brother shouted.

Before Jon could say no, a plate with a roasted snake was placed before him. An exotic dish his brother had so badly wanted to try. It was marinated in a foul smelling sauce and the amount of salt atop it appeared snow. He could not believe his brother had wanted a dish so foul.

"I don't think that I will," Jon pushed the plate away from him. He reached for a glass of the Dornish Red and took a hearty gulp before being interrupted again.

"I said try it," Aegon stood from his chair. He wrapped his hand around the grip of his new sword.

The blade was a gift from Jon Connington. It was a Valyrian Steel Broadsword. His brother had named it the Dragon's Bite. Besides being made of fine steel, it had a pommel decorated with a dragon snarling with its mouth wide open. It also had rubies in it for eyes. Its grip was ebony and the cross guard appeared to be nearly as sharp as the blade. It may have been a well-crafted weapon but it was nothing more than for show, its scabbard was too pretty to be considered for anything but. It was a bright red, far too colorful.

"I think you have had too much to drink brother," Jon ignored him as he sipped his wine. His brother must have had six or seven glasses by now, while he was still on his second. He never did care for the effects of wine and neither did he care for its taste.

"I order you to eat it," Aegon demanded.

"That's enough boy," Sture said. He was sitting across the table from them and like the others was dressed in comfortable lose fitting clothes. His shirt was grey and his breeches black, the same as Cynall. Jon bore red and black, the colors of his father's house, whilst his father was in that of grey.

"Sit down, son," Connington put his hand and Aegon's shoulder and guided him towards his chair.

"I will not," he shouted. A callous silence then followed. "I am a king," he slurred. He may have been drunk but not to the point of yelling, yet.

Jon began to wonder if his brother was like this outside in the brothels and taverns, if he had ever said such things in the companies of sell-swords and whores, or even spies from across the Narrow Sea. If he had, they would most certainly be dead by now or maybe Varys' _little birds_ had prevented it from coming to fruition. He would never know, much less want to.

"If it makes you feel better," Jon said. "I'll try a piece," he reached for his fork and stabbed into the head area or tail area, he could not tell which it was, and broke off a piece. The meat was white and thoroughly cooked but stunk as if rotten. He took a bite and cringed.

"That's fucking awful," he spat it on to the floor. "How can you eat that?"

"I didn't you did, good job snake," Aegon began to laugh hysterically. He collapsed into his chair. "That's why I bought it!"

Not finding any humor in the joke, Jon turned to Melisandre. "Thankfully. If this was of your design, Melisandre, I fear I might have needed to become the new cook of the household."

Laughter began to spread around the table. The fiery haired woman was more than what she had let on in the beginning. Not only was she clever but she had a talent for making the finest cuisine, even if lacking proper ingredients.

"Ah but I was not the one who cooked such a dish. Was I now, Jon," she cocked up one of her fiery eyebrows. It made him blush with embarrassment.

"Of course not, My Lady," Jon reached for his wine. He pressed the cool tin to his lips and before he could taste the wine, the cup went crashing down to the floor and its contents spilling all over him.

"Do you find me funny," Aegon demanded.

"Calm down, boy," Sture said once more. He looked to rise but father had lifted his hand and he stayed still.

"Shut it old man. No one tells me what to do, no one. Not anyone. I am a Targaryen. I am a Dragon and I am not told what to do."

Most days Jon could take the insult, today was like any other and he would deal with it. It was his brother's nameday and for his sake he would.

"Please, brother," Jon said. "Calm down. There is no need for any hostility-

He felt something strike him across his face. It was quick and relatively painless, his brother must have struck him, only he could hit with so little force. He lifted his head to see Aegon huffing, his face turning red and his hand stained with blood.

"Shut it bastard. You're the reason I'm in this shithole, you and your whore mother. My father never should have raped her, he should have-

Jon knew what he was doing. He had finally had enough of his tongue. He struck his half-brother with a backhand first. It was as if years of anger and rage had finally found him, too bad for his brother.

Jon cursed. He should have closed his fingers. He would have avoided the hurt if he had remembered.

"Never insult my mother." One hand turned into a fist and the other grabbed on to his fine collar. First it was one punch and then it became three and then by the time his father and uncles had gotten him off of his half-brother, his nose appeared broken and his jaw no better. He had no idea as to how many times he had struck or as to how hard.

"Fuck yourself," Jon shouted as he pushed Cynall off of him.

"Jon, please calm down," his uncle said. "The shit deserved it but it's over now."

It was then the younger Targaryen looked upon his half brother and saw the now man crying, doubled over in pain on the ground. Blood had poured from his face and trickled down all over him.

"I am a Dragon," he murmured. Even in pain Aegon was still a bastard. "I am a Dragon and you are a Wolf and we eat Wolves."

"Well just remember this, Dragon," Jon pushed his uncle off of him and made for the door. "Wolves have claws of their own."

He opened it and left without another word, despite the protests for him to stop.

After a short time, Jon had found himself walking through the city. It was dark now and nothing was alive in the save for pot shops, taverns, and brothels. The second two sounded really good to Jon at this moment.

He then wandered towards the docks. He knew most of the city's brothels were there, at least the ones he could afford to go to where at least. Jon had not bothered to grab any of the coin he kept hidden and only had that of which he always kept on him. It was merely a few coppers and two pieces of silver, more than enough for a woman and drink to keep him content for the night.

When the smell of fish began to fill his nose he knew he had come to the right place, the sea was in front of him and the building he was looking for was to his right. It was the same brothel he had gone to five years before, called the Silver Woman. It was respectable but not nearly as much as some of the others Qarth had to offer yet it would do for what he had wanted.

Like when he was younger, the place was packed to the brim. Men that had been at sea for months were pushing past each other and desperate for the warmth that a woman could give them. Jon never imagined he would be one of them, he felt very out of place being where he was.

He decided he needed to drink first, prepare himself for losing his maidenhead or whatever it was that a man had lost when he had his first woman. He waved through the crowd and found himself ordering a bottle of Dornish Red, not a glass or a cup but a full bottle. Before he could change his mind he had given up one of his silver and was walking towards the corner of the building and found himself in the darkness, hiding and drinking away his shame like a craven.

Jon found the bottle a quarter of the way done when he heard a voice call to him.

"Boy," it was a man. It came from very angry and impatient one by the sound of his tone.

"Yes," Jon said. He dare not raise his face. He did not want to admit it but he was afraid in that moment and tried his best not to show it.

"You're in my seat, it's best you move."

"No," he lifted his head to meet the stranger's eyes but instead he only saw his chest. Jon had to lift it up even more until he saw the man's eyes. Most people would have gasped if they had seen what he did, Aegon especially, but Jon was not most people.

The man he was looking at was the largest he had ever seen. He was all muscle and anger by the looks of it. Then there was his face, as if his size was not already so fearsome. Half of it was normal and the other half was just burnt flesh. He saw black flesh and it appeared to be oozing something but nothing dripped down his cheek.

Jon then tried to stare down the man by looking into his eyes but found his wandering from the man's grey back to his black. He found pockets of red flesh hidden in the black as well as deep scars around his left eye. He was amazed that the man could see at all.

He found himself again trying not to stare at them man but yet could not help but continue. It was when Jon had noticed his jawbone appearing from underneath his flesh that the burnt man spoke up again.

"Did you have your fill boy," he sneered. "Did you get a good look at my pretty face? Do I frighten you?"

If he was trying to intimidate Jon, it was working but he could not let the man know that.

"Of course not," he tried to sound as brave as he could. "Why should I be?" He tried to look for something else to stare at.

The man's armor was not in the least bit lacking. He sported black leather over loose mail, as most sell-swords in Qarth do, and kept a broadsword at his side. There was a hound decorating the pommel.

"Because I'm scary," he near shouted. A few eyes glanced their way but swiftly returned to what they had focused on before. All of them afraid of the man Jon was talking to.

Jon's focus was brought back to the man's burnt face. "Not nearly enough," he said. He lifted the bottle to his lips but the large man grabbed it from his hands. "Hey, that's mine. I bought it."

"Good, now it's mine. Bugger off then boy, before I decide to kill you." He paused. "You wouldn't be the first boy I killed either." He waited for Jon to leave but he did no such thing.

"I said bugger off, boy. Can't you hear?"

"Just fine," Jon grumbled. "Unlike my brother," he spat at his own feet.

"Oh, what's this now. You've got problems with your brother, go home and cry upon your mother and father's breast. You'll get no sympathy from me."

"They're both dead." He must have been drunk, that was it. There was no other reason as to why he would say it.

"Tell someone that cares." The burnt man then took a seat next to the boy. The two of them remained silent before he decided to speak again to him again, less threatening this time "Why do you hate your brother?"

"How do you know I hate-

"Because when you mentioned that you had a brother, it sounded like you wanted to gut him with a knife. Like that one you got in your boot. Yes, I saw it boy. It's a good one too, I've killed many men with such steel."

Jon was surprised the man could see the blade at all; he had it well hidden inside his boot. _He must be a knight, _he thought.

"Are you a Knight, Ser?"

"I'm no knight boy," the man spoke as if venom spurted from each word. "I spit on them and their vows." Spite mixed with wine spurted from his mouth, landing in Jon's face. "My brother is a knight. So answer the question, why do you hate your brother?"

"He's a cunt," Jon said simply. "He isn't my brother, not truly. He is my father's other son."

"That must be why he hates you, you must be a bastard. Nothing you do will change that, nothing at all, boy. You can become a king and the cunt will always see you as a bastard."

Jon wanted to protest but decided against it, he felt the man was right. Besides that, he was surprised as to how accurate the man was. _If only he knew that I really was a prince and that my brother is the rightful king, _he thought.

"You said you had a brother," he then asked. "What did he do to you to make you hate him so?" Jon had a feeling on what had happened to the burnt man and that his brother was responsible.

"It's none of your concern boy." He lifted up the bottle to his lips and appeared to have swallowed what was in the bottle. Less than half the wine was left now.

"But listen to me now boy and you listen good, if you hate your brother as much as he must hate you, don't bother arguing with me boy I know the cunt hates you, by the way you talked of him I think you feel the same about him. Just like I hate my brother," he pressed the bottle against his lips again. This time he took nothing more than a sip. "If you don't get to him first, this is what he'll do to you."

The burnt man grabbed Jon's hand and put it on his black flesh but he did not shy away. He looked into the large man's eyes as he touched his face. It was the most horrific thing he had ever felt in his life. His burnt flesh felt slick and cold to the touch, despite the appearance of it being warm. It felt like he was with the Stranger himself, this man had so much hate.

"Now go on boy," he flung the hand off his face and lifted Jon with one arm off his chair. He had not even stood up to do so. "Go home and think on what I told you."

Jon nearly tripped over as he was flung but he kept himself standing.

"What should I do if my brother does it again," there was no emotion in his voice. "If he does what he did again and I let him do it, what should I do?"

"Either kill him or slit your own damn throat and spare him the trouble of burning you."

When Jon left the burnt man to his own pain and misery and reflected on his own, he realized that he had never agreed with a man more. Not even once.


	9. The North-Catelyn

_**Sorry to be cruel here, but this chapter takes place five years before the last one. I pulled a fast one I know and I'm evil but hey…I'm only human. Thanks for reading what I have written and for supporting this story. This is not just about Jon but also those whose lives his choices will change. I hope you enjoy this chapter, if you can, leave a review. If not, thanks for taking the time out of your day to do so. **_

Catelyn walked through Winterfell with a stone expression and her head raised high, as she always did. She could not afford to look like a maid of the south. It was her duty to assume the control of Winterfell since her husband and most of the men of the north were off at war. Now it was the women and girls filling the halls of the old castle. Then beside them were a few men, those who were not old enough to fight and those who could no longer.

Catelyn, like a good wife, stepped in for her husband in all of his affairs. She arranged for all expenses to be taken care of, all supplies to be rationed as fit and anything else that needed her attention. If she did not know what to do, she merely asked Maester Luwin for his advice.

Despite being high in years, the old Maester was not frail despite the appearance of being so. He kept up rather easily with the Lady of Winterfell and had helped her in any way he could. She felt blessed by the Seven to have such a man in their service. He had helped her birth her three children with ease, something she knew most women had perished from but he assured her that he has never let that happen and would never allow that to be. The man had more than earn his chain.

As she continued through the courtyard, she saw the Maester with her eldest, Robb. Her face and hair was ever present on him and becoming stronger, he was true Trout. Yet the fierce Direwolf ran through his veins, he acted like his father more and more every day. He wanted to be like him, he often said. He wanted to be the Lord of Winterfell like his father.

"Now, Robb what is the sigil of this house," Luwin said.

Catelyn then changed direction from the Steward's chambers towards her son. Her affairs with Poole could wait; right now she wanted to see her son.

"It is House Targaryen," she heard him say as she approached them. "Their sigil is that of a three headed dragon…" Robb paused as he turned his head. "Mother," he stood from the bench, as did the Maester.

"My Lady," the frail looking man said. "It is good to see you on such a beautiful morning."

Lady Catelyn smiled and looked up to the sky. There were no clouds and the sun was bright, a rare warm day in the North. "It is good to see you too, Maester Luwin, as always. Tell me," she inquired. "What lesson are you teaching to Robb? The last time I checked, the Targaryens were no longer in Westeros and neither do they still have a house."

Despite her love for Ned, Catelyn never forgot Brandon, her Lord Husband's older brother. She still hated the mad king for making her betrothed strangle himself to death in a vain attempt to save his father from being cooked alive in his armor. She could never admit such to Ned.

It was why Catelyn, in many ways, feared his departure those nine years ago when he went to join the Robert's Rebellion, as the war was known as. It was why she feared his departure as he left to fight the Ironmen those months ago.

"Forgive me, My Lady," Luwin responded. "But I am only teaching the boy the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Even with all the atrocities caused by the end of their dynasty, it does not mean the Targaryen House was not one of the greatest in all of Westeros."

That much was true, Catelyn hated to admit. So she said nothing.

"Very well then, I will leave you to your studies," she nodded her head towards the two but stopped. "What is it that you wanted to tell me?"

"Pardon me, My Lady," Luwin asked. He did so as Lady Catelyn knew he would.

"Normally you inform of the messages brought to you by your Ravens but you have kept a message for me." Her eyes drifted towards Robb.

"I will see what Arya is up to," the boy spoke. He had understood what his mother wanted him to do, her looks towards him said all. "Mother, Maester Luwin," he properly said before leaving them.

The two waited for him to disappear into the stone building that held their chambers before they continued.

"My Lady, it is nothing I assure you. It is merely a rumor," Luwin lowered his eyes.

"Ned, is…is…is he," she had managed to force out the words from her lips. She felt like a girl again, she had horrid memories of the Rebellion. Memories of waiting and not knowing if her husband was alive or dead

"It is best," Luwin reached into his robes and pulled out a raven's scroll. "That you read for yourself, My Lady." He averted his eyes as she took it in her grasp.

Catelyn felt her hands shaking. She did not know how something so small could make her feel so helpless, it was nothing more than words written on paper but yet they felt more terrifying to her than each of the Seven Hells.

Lady Catelyn opened the scroll and began to read the words that the ink had created. She read them over once and was dumbfounded by what was written that she read them again, and then again and by the fifth time she had read them she let the scroll fall to the ground and wrapped her arms around the Maester.

"He's coming home, they're all coming home." Catelyn released the old Maester from her grasp. "Why did you not tell me sooner, why did you have to wait so long. This says they reached White Harbor almost a week ago, they should be here soon." She felt tears stinging her eyes. Ned was alive as well as victorious and it was all that Catelyn had cared about.

"It arrived this morning, My Lady," Luwin smiled. She did not care for his jape, especially since it had been at her expense and on such a matter as well. She would not tolerate such a thing from another man but Luwin. "Your son already knows as does little Arya, I imagine by now. Soon Sansa and the rest of Winterfell will hear their men are coming home, if they have not already."

"Of course, of course," Catelyn wiped away the tears from her eyes and smiled. "Thank you, Luwin. We must prepare, a feast must be arranged and so many other accommodations must be made. Come let us find Vayon, there is much to be-

"Father's coming home, father's coming home," Arya had shouted. In no time at all had Robb found his youngest sister and told her the news. Arya ran across the yard, as fast as her short legs could take her. Her brother struggled to keep up. He was a good ten paces behind and begging her to stop.

Catelyn knelt down and opened up her arms. She scooped up her youngest and held on to her as tightly as a mother dared, which barely left her breathing. She did not seem to mind as she did the same to her mother.

"Is it true," Sansa came running as well, behind Robb. Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole, her closest friends followed closely behind her. All of their faces were red with joy.

"Yes child, yes it is." As soon as her other children within reach, Catelyn held on to them as tightly as she did Arya. She did not care that she was in the North, she did not care that she was the Lady of Winterfell, she was a mother and wife first and she did not see herself as weak for loving her children and husband. "Your father is coming home, and he will never leave us again."


	10. The Rock-Tyrion

**Here is chapter 10 my friends. I just edited it. Again, let me know what you think. Constructive Criticism is welcomed. Again, thanks for reading and have a good one.**

Tyrion was beginning to grow bored at Casterly Rock. There was nothing there for him. There were, however, the whores in Lannisport, and the books in the family library and the wine that filled the cellars of his father's castle. So in truth there were things for the youngest of the Lannisters to do but none of them were appealing to him, in this moment.

As a dwarf Tyrion knew that there was little love for him in his family. That he knew too well, some of them even took to calling him the Imp or simply as _it. _There was such little love for him that he often wondered why he still drew breath. If he was born into any other family, Tyrion was certain that he would have been left to starve or killed on the spot but the Gods' decided to make his life interesting. Not only did they make him a Lannister but the son of Tywin Lannister, the most feared man in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Not even brave Robert Baratheon dared trifle with the Lion of Lannister. Tyrion knew that in some way the Stag feared the Lion. That must have been the reason as to why he willingly married his sister. It was only a moon's turn after Ned Stark brought back home his dead sister, when Robert agreed to the marriage with Cersei. Tyrion could not see as to how he could. Besides being beautiful, which all men in the kingdom seemed to think, his sister was nothing more than a bitch.

Everything had to be according to her standards. Everything had to be perfect, if the smallest of details was not perfect, it would simply not do. If a woman wanted to have a knight, Cersei would want a King. If a woman wanted a child, Cersei wanted a Prince. Now she had both and more but it was still not enough for her.

_Nothing was ever enough for her_, Tyrion reached across the table for his goblet. Only halfway through the morning, the Imp was beginning to feel the effects of his Dornish Red. The sudden boast of confidence and happiness were evident. So he decided not to waste it as he stood from his seat and went to find some entertainment, as fast as his little legs could carry him.

The servants did not bow or look at him as he walked pass them, as Tyrion knew they would. Without Tywin around, they had nothing to fear and their lack in courtesy towards the youngest Lannister was the evidence. He, however, did not care as he continued on his merry way, which was not so merry.

Tyrion had received news that his father had finished with his business in Pyke and that the Greyjoy Rebellion, as this farce of a war was called, had ended. There was good news that did come with the bad. With Tywin returning, from surging fear throughout the Iron Islands, it also meant Tyrion's favorite sibling would be coming home as well.

Too long had it been since he had seen Jaime last. _Three years and at King's Landing_, Tyrion thought. They were in the Red Keep, sharing both wine and conversation. It was a good conversation and it made the wine taste far better. Although witty, Jaime was not near so as Tyrion. The Imp would often confuse his brother and poke fun at him, something the two relished in. Jaime, unlike the rest of the realm, knew how to take a joke. Tyrion was happy that he would see him again. Hopefully they would share another bottle, or seven, when he came back to the Rock but until then he would find something to do, something to save him from his boredom.

Tyrion found his solution almost immediately after walking out of the castle. It was within the finest brothel in all of Lannisport and lay between the legs of his usual woman. She was a black haired northern girl with a full pair of breast and an ass that could make even the Lion of Lannister turn his head. Her face was pretty in a sort of way, not strikingly beautiful but enough to be considered such. Tyrion felt that it was such a shame that he had to pay double for her services, although never told to his face he knew it. Yet as a Lannister he could afford the price without blinking.

Right now their clothes were lying in her room, intertwined with each other as he lay on her bed. Her head was bobbing up and down between his legs until her job was done.

"You northern girls do know what is best," Tyrion said. He stretched his short arms over his head. "I do believe that this is the best I have felt in ages."

The woman said nothing as she wiped her mouth and face. Then she walked across the room, moving her hips, as she knew Tyrion liked, and began to pour them both wine.

"My Lord," she said on return. The goblet she handed Tyrion was old, cracked and faded but still held in all the wine.

"Thank you," Tyrion said. He did not say her name because he did not know it. It was strange that this woman had been pleasuring him for so long and he had yet to learn it. So as she said nothing, neither did he as they prepared to continue their dalliances.

So they sat their sipping wine, he to get the effects and she to get the taste of him out of her mouth. It did make Tyrion wonder, _what must I taste like?_

"Does your father return soon, My Lord," she asked suddenly. Ending their vow of silence.

"Mmm," Tyrion sipped his wine. She did not understand, so he tried once more. "Yes, yes," he mumbled. "My sweet father you see will be here soon, it is only a short matter of time until he comes back home and reclaims the Rock from me."

With that they finished speaking and finished what remained of their wine. Then once more Tyrion found himself in between the northern girl's legs.

Afterwards he made his way through the remnants of Lannisport. Tyrion began to push down on the wrinkles that made a home in his fine shirt. It was dark red and embroidered with gold stitching, his pants were a mirror image except they did not have the Gold Lion stitched into them. As he finished somewhat making himself presentable, in case of his father's early arrival, he looked up to see the ruins of Lannisport.

Some of the city's buildings were still ashes as others were being resurrected. The ones that he had just walked by were a bakery and the local tanner, both owners were said to have perished in the buildings as they burned. He remembered children going to his father and confessing that. They were probably al that remained of their families.

The damage that the Ironborn had caused was chaotic and extensive, it would have been far worse if Tywin did not have the reputation that he did. Still, the raiders had done enough damage. They burnt the entire Lannister fleet, took some of their people in chains, they looted, they raped countless people; women, men and children alike, and everything else that goes with pillaging.

Tyrion could still remember the sight of the burning fleet. The stink of burning flesh and smoke that filled the air and his nostrils. The screams of the men trapped and burned alive in those ships. Then the sight of the chaos as it spread into the city and the people that suffered. It made Tyrion grateful for the wine that dulled his senses.

When Tyrion left Lannisport and all the bitter memories of it behind him the gates of his home had already been lifted.

"That's strange," he said. The Imp then continued through them, surprised at what he saw.

He saw banners with Golden Lions and dozens of men in full armor that had returned from war. One such man was Gregor Cleagane, the Mountain itself. The knight was far from human. Tyrion did not even want to imagine what his father had ordered him to do. Everything Gregor did was barbaric. He must have had to get a new privy every time he took a shit.

Then such pleasant thoughts had left his mind as he saw the man he hated most.

Tywin Lannister, in all of his glory, sat upon his white steed. Next to him were uncle Kevan and Ser Jaime, all three of them in Lannister red and gold armor. All of them standing tall like lions.

Tyrion felt small, smaller than usual as he gazed upon them. If he had only been born a normal man, his father would not have resented him as much as he did. He might have even trained him like Jaime. _Such things do not matter anymore, I suppose. _

"Father, Uncle," Tyrion greeted. He had to force himself into a near run as he entered the courtyard. "Jaime," he beamed.

"Hello there, brother," Jaime smiled. It was the same one that made the women of the Seven Kingdoms swoon, no less. Tyrion, however, was not as easily charmed. "The Rock was not too dull, I trust." He still attempted to be witty.

"Why of course not, dear brother. It has been most amusing here. The battles in my books are very frightening. I don't know how you could stomach actual ones."

"Enough," Tywin said. The brothers had scarcely said words to one another before their father had gone mad because of their joy. "I will not have you make a mockery of this. War is not something to be made light of." He then dismounted and approached Tyrion, looking down upon him in more ways than one.

"Father," the Imp bowed. "Welcome home."

"Spare me," he replied. "If you were a decent Lannister you would have waited here to greet us before you went off to your whores." Without a second glance he turned to leave. "Come along, Jaime. We have much to discuss in my solar."

Jaime looked to his brother and bowed his head before turning to leave. Kevan followed his lead and soon all three Lannisters were out of sight.

Tyrion stood there a few moments more, once more humiliated by his father in public. He then made his way towards the door but had stopped when he felt his shoulder being tapped.

"My Lord," it was one of the many red cloaks in his father's pockets.

"Yes, now, what is it?"

"Your father instructed me to inform you that you were to meet with everyone in the dinning hall later this evening for dinner. In honor of Lannisport and the ending of the war."

"Yes, yes," Tyrion scoffed. "I'll be there." He continued towards his home but stopped once more. "What else did he say?"

"He said that you are to make yourself presentable for the presence of the King and Queen." With that the dutiful man left to go and do whatever it was that he was supposed to.

"Gods," Tyrion cursed and continued into his home. He hoped that there was nothing worse that could happen to him on that very evening.

Apparently the Seven had seen to make Tyrion an even greater joke. Not only were his father and sister back home but Cersei had decided to bring her son as well. It was not as if Tyrion did not like Joffrey. He simply could not stand him. Even though he was a small child, he was insufferable and it was because of Cersei, no doubt. She coddled the boy too much and disciplined him too little.

The story about the pregnant cat and the kittens was more than enough to make even the sternest of men vomit. He was lucky Robert only caused him to loose teeth, Tywin's judgment would have been far worse. Tyrion could hear him say something along the lines of, _You are a Lannister. It is time you must act like one. _Afterwards, he could not say what exactly, but knew that punishment would involve something very painful.

Yet this was a feast. There was no such thing as a sad man at a feast. Tyrion put a smile upon his face as he continued to drink to drown his dread.

In the beginning, once the King and Queen were in the hall. Robert gave a grand speech on how the people of Lannisport were brave and how they would never be forgotten and so on and so forth. He barely slurred as he delivered it. Then once the food had been presented and served did the King take a rest from his drinking and stuffed his mouth with everything laid before him. Fish baked in clay, chicken roasted with a yellow sauce, salad with a plum paste, and a vast assortment of other foods had been placed before him, all of them consumed by him just as fast. It was to no wonder as to why Robert was losing the image of being a fierce warrior.

Then after losing all interest in the King, Tyrion's eyes wandered towards his sister, sitting next to her husband as a proper lady did. Cersei looked like her usual self, proper and fine and dressed in fine silk dresses and hairstyles of the court. Today her hair was long and her crown was covered by it. Yet it did not draw any attention compared to her bright crimson dress. Some of the guards, as well as lords, would stare at her, not being able to resist the way the fabric hung to her.

Tyrion lifted his glass towards his sister, in hopes of irking her. Despite being small and hidden in a crowd, Cersei had noticed her brother's gesture and gave him a fierce look. Her disapproval only made him feel better.

"Why do you enjoy doing that," Jaime said. He appeared from nowhere and had taken a seat next to his younger brother. "You know she hates it?"

"But of course, my dearest brother," Tyrion replied. He sipped his now empty cup and placed to his side. "That is why I do it."

"Of course it is," Jaime laughed. "So how are you brother, it's been too long since we last spoke."

"Indeed, Jaime. I have begun to think that you have forgotten about me but now I see you here, back at the Rock and such thoughts leave me. It's been only what, three years since we last saw each other."

"Two," he corrected. "We last met two years ago at a tourney. I…you know, I don't remember it really. I think we were both too drunk to stand."

Tyrion was surprised. He thought they had not seen each other in three years. "I wouldn't be surprised. We often drink when together," he grabbed his refilled goblet and continued to sip wine.

"So how go things in the Kingsguard? Do you have any exciting tales of heroism and gallantry to tell, come on then tell me and don't spare any details."

"If you insist brother, then I'll tell you of the war…" Jaime then began to explain the details as to what happened in the Greyjoy Rebellion. How the Royal Fleet had destroyed that of the Ironmen. Then how the combined armies of the North and the Baratheons had driven the raiders back to their rock in the sea before forcing Balon Greyjoy to swear fealty to Robert.

"He still would not surrender, even after losing two of his sons?" Tyrion knew the Ironmen were different but did not realize as to how much until that moment.

"Asking something like that is like asking why he rebelled in the first place. Balon is a damned fool," Jaime near shouted. "His forces were a tenth of ours, he had no chance to win this war but he still felt as if he did. The man was a damned fool, brother. There is no other explanation."

Tyrion had seen Jaime angry before but this was different. His brother seemed to be more than just furious.

"There was something else that happened," he asked. "What else happened brother?"

Jaime was silent for a moment but then spoke, "It was Lord Stark." He half whispered as if his name was an abomination. Ever since the incident at the Red Keep, Honorable Ned Stark and his brother had no love between.

"Yes, what about Honorable Ned? What did he do that was so horrible?"

"It wasn't what he did, Tyrion." Jaime reached forward and grabbed his goblet. "It was what he ordered done."

"Which was…"

"He convinced Robert to take Theon Greyjoy as his ward," he stopped.

"That's it," Tyrion expected something much worse. "There are worse things than that brother. I don't think being taken hostage by the Starks is one of them." The Imp knew that the last Greyjoy son would be safe in Winterfell. The Starks were too honorable to be so…Lannister.

Jaime's face remained pale. Tyrion knew that his brother was keeping something from him.

"Jaime," he asked. "What else happened?"

"Lord Stark," he began. "Lord Stark ordered the executions of all our prisoners. All eighty-seven of them, including Balon's youngest brother, Aeron."

"It's war brother, I may not be a warrior but even I know that-

"They were not beheaded, Tyrion." Jaime whispered, his voice ever faint. "It would have been better if they were. Instead, he had them flayed by Bolton. Right in the middle of Pyke, for all the Ironborn to see."

Tyrion's goblet slipped from his hand, its contents spilling over the stone floor beneath him but he did not notice. He was still trying to understand what his brother had just said.

_Ned Stark, _he thought. _The Honorable Ned Stark?_ "Are you sure brother, I mean-"

"I saw the exchange, Tyrion. I saw father give Stark the prisoners willingly. I even saw him smile as he did it," Jaime turned his head towards their father and Tyrion did the same.

Tywin was still in the same armor he wore earlier and his gaze was aimed directly towards them, it both unwavering and piercing. It seemed that he knew exactly of what they spoke of.

"It was agonizing, brother," Jaime said. "To see so many men without their skin covering them. Some of them were still alive as Bolton presented them to Pyke…begging to die. Aeron was one of them and I could still hear his screams."

"Let us hope that tells them not to rebel again. It would be wise for them not to."

"Little brother, I saw a little girl and her brother scream as they witnessed their uncles flayed body. It was barbaric."

Tyrion knew his brother meant Theon and Asha Greyjoy. The thought of two children witnessing that, even being Ironborn, made him feel pity for them, more so than their uncle. Aeron was more of a fool than raider. He did not appear like his brothers, not as cruel or heartless like Euron and Victarion neither was he as stupid as Balon. In honesty he was a drunk, the outcast of such a great House. Tyrion remembered the guards talking of how one of their prisoners boasted of being both the youngest brother to Balon Greyjoy and the best pisser in all the Seven Kingdoms. Now he was without skin, wherever Roose Bolton had left him.

"Let us talk of other matters, shall we brother," Tyrion asked. "Such talk ruins the purpose of our wine."

"Yes," Jaime said. He reached for his wine and took a sip. His eyes seemed focus on someone else.

"Tell me," Tyrion turned round to see who it was. "Why are you looking at Ser Meryn? The last I checked he was Joff's sworn shield."

"What," Jaime asked. He did not listen apparently.

The knight had been Joffrey's personal guard for some time now. He was both ugly and stupid. He did what he was told without question. He was the one who gave Joffrey the knife for that business with the cat. Tyrion was surprised that Robert still allowed him to be near his son.

"Why do you keep staring at Ser Meryn, he is Joffrey's sworn shield. It is not as if he is going to hurt him." _He is in our family's employ after all. _

"I don't know," Jaime replied. "I don't trust the man. Ever since he lost the last vacant spot in the Kingsguard to Ser Ryswell, he's had some resentment towards us."

Tyrion did recall that day. Ser Meryn had caused such a scene after not receiving a position in the Kingsguard, after being promised one. In his stead, Robert had chosen Ser Mark Ryswell. The man, who killed the Sword of Morning, had been rewarded with one of the highest of honors a King could bestow unto a knight.

"Don't worry," Jaime then assured. "If he ever tries anything, I could kill him without worry."

Ah yes, Jaime Lannister, best known as the Kingslayer, was one of the greatest swordsmen in all the Seven Kingdoms. Only a handful of men could match him and ugly Ser Meryn was not one. Ser Arthur Dayne had made a fine knight out of his brother, the Gods' keep him.

"Very good," Tyrion smiled. "Very good."

There was a pregnant pause between the brothers until Jaime rose to leave. "Unfortunately brother," he said. "It is time for me to go, I shall see you in the morning, I hope. Until then, good night." With that he left and soon disappeared into the crowd.

Tyrion thought nothing of the matter and instead focused on Ned Stark. He had heard the Lord of Winterfell was a just and honorable man. That he valued honor above all else, some whispered he valued it even more than his own kin. Why would a man who swung the sword himself order another man to do his killing for him?

Tyrion soon found himself no longer caring about Ned Stark. He had just noticed Cersei was not in her seat next to Robert anymore and that she had left around the same time Jaime had.


	11. The Day-Jon

Jon looked to Aegon, as he walked ahead of him. He was caught by surprise when his brother had told him that he wanted to make an outing of his nameday. He was beyond shocked as his brother woke him up early that morning and confessed his plans to him.

"Jon," Aegon whispered.

"What is it brother?"

"Today is your nameday, is it not," he made his words sound as if he were not asking a question.

"Yes, yes it is," Jon yawned and stretched. When his senses came to him, he saw his brother was dressed not in his well looking clothes usual clothes. He dressed in a simple loose brown tunic and breeches to match, which was not like him in the slightest.

Ever since his own nameday, Aegon had changed and it appeared for the better. His attitude had developed into something far more genuine, humble really. He no longer proclaimed himself to be a Dragon and neither did he treat Jon as if he were a mere serf. Aegon acted brotherly towards him, like he did for a time when they were younger.

"Good," he gently punched him on the shoulder. "Then get up, we have a long day ahead of us."

"Long day," Jon looked out towards the window. "It's barely dawn. What could we possibly be doing today? Besides we have our studies and our lessons. There won't be any celebrations until tonight brother."

Melisandre and Father had told him that despite him turning fourteen on that day, he would not be allowed to miss his studies or his training. Even Aegon was not allowed to when he came of age, his celebration came well into the night.

"I know," Aegon smiled. "It's why we're leaving before they notice. I have things planned for us." He rubbed his nose before turning to the door. It had gotten flatter and wider since that night, a constant reminder of which of them was fiercer. "Don't you wish to spend time with me brother, like we used to? Before well…"

"Of course," Jon smiled. He did not want to discuss a different time. "Let me dress and I'll meet you outside."

That was how his day had started. Jon woke up to an unexpected surprise and now he found himself wandering through the city with his elder brother.

They had first stopped at one of Qarth's finer inns for an early breakfast. The bread they had was so fresh that Jon felt he was eating it from the oven. So soft and fluff it barely had to be bitten into, it melted in his mouth. They had eggs scrambled and spiced with pepper and black crispy bacon all whilst drinking two glasses of Dornish Red, each. Afterwards they made their way towards the marketplace and began to wander through it.

The goods and wares that were offered had fascinated Jon greatly. There were swordmakers and armorers that offered their craft to those that could afford them. He saw several blades he liked and even a battle-axe. He knew it was a clumsy weapon but he liked the way that the blade was curved. Jon felt it was perfect for overpowering ones enemies but could no afford it. So he bothered not to ask as the merchant cursed him and told him to leave.

Behind the weapon and armor makers were dealers of silks and clothing, something that did not interest Jon but the women who dealt them were beautiful. One of them, some Tyroshi beauty, had such long blue hair and eyes as green as emeralds. Her skin was olive color and her face was shaped to her high cheekbones perfectly. She watched as Jon passed by her and tried to get him to purchase her silks, saying that she offered them for men too. This caused him to blush and walk away from her before he focused on her breasts, which were well rounded and could be seen through her yellow silk. He never did like eyeing women, he always felt so ashamed of himself. Father did teach him to be a proper gentleman after all.

Aegon did, however, pick up on his brother's embarrassment and taunted him for it throughout the day. Only a few months older, he considered himself a master on the arts of lovemaking and had been trying to convince Jon to become a man by more than just name.

"Come now, Jon. You must lose your virginity to fully become a man," Aegon said. They were currently exiting the marketplace and making their way towards the docks. He had offered to buy them an exotic lunch from an eatery Jon was unfamiliar with.

"No, brother," he laughed. He was surprised that Aegon was kind and it was pleasant. He was cheerful to have his brother back. It had been years since he had last seen him like this. "I don't think I will."

"Nonsense, consider it your nameday present," he wrapped his arms round his brother's shoulders and pulled him into a warm embrace. "I will not take no for an answer. It would be a great insult for you to refuse, didn't Ricant say that?"

Aegon had him there. Father had always told Jon it was impolite to refuse a gift and to accept it with courtesy and grace, even if it was in bad taste.

"Alright then," Jon smiled. "I accept your gift willingly."

"Excellent we'll make our way to the brothel later," he released his grip from his brother and gestured towards a building adjacent from the docks. "This is where we are going to have our lunch."

The building was small and rather crowded. There was, however, an aroma that made Jon's mouth water. "It smells good," he said. "What is it?"

"For that brother," Aegon led him through the threshold, "You will need to find out on your own. Come on."

They found themselves a seat in the far right-hand corner in the midst of the overcrowded establishment. Apparently it was famous for its fish, since nearly everyone there was eating it, save them. It was a fish Jon had never laid eyes on before. It was a very bright red and yellow. It seemed very exotic and very different. It made Jon impatient, as he was eager to try it. It was one of the finest smelling things that ever graced his nose.

Aegon saw his impatience and made small talk with his brother, promptly asking him about a man in the far corner.

"A what," Jon asked. He was taken aback.

"That man there, with the face," Aegon said. "He just walked in and has been looking at you."

Jon whirled his head and his eyes widened in shock. It was the same burnt man as before. He was still in the same armor and still had the same angry look from that night. Directing it towards Jon.

"Why do you ask me this," Jon turned and returned his gaze to across the table. "Do you think I would know a man like that?" _I hope you don't. _

Jon still remembered their encounter. How he had nearly pissed himself as the giant of a man scared him. He felt brave after standing up to him and knew that his brother would never do such.

"Of course not," Aegon beamed. "You're more likely to know a whore than a man like that." They shared a laugh as their food was brought to them.

_But I don't know a whore, brother. _Jon then took a bite of the best fish he had ever eaten.

Then their day continued as it had earlier, with no more strange encounters. The pair continued the gazing and walking until it was near sunset. Jon knew they had to get back home soon. Otherwise there would be even greater punishment for their sudden and long disappearance. Jon cringed to think of what would happen. If Sture had dealt out the punishment, it meant they had to practice with their blades for hours on end without rest. If Cynall had dealt out their punishment, he would have them clean the entire house all day. If Melisandre had dealt out their punishment, they would have to copy one of her books word for word, in Valyrian no less. Father and Griff would do nothing and just watch them. They preferred to ensure that the sentence was dispensed and seen to both completion and perfection.

"We should be getting home soon," Jon said. "I want to have my nameday dinner there, brother. I have been looking forward to Melisandre's cooking for weeks now." It was her lemon cakes he looked forward to. He loved them very much.

Aegon huffed and turned his head round. He seemed genuinely sad at his brother's comment. "All right but allow me to give you your present first. It's the least I could do since we are going to be chained to our bedposts for the next few months."

Jon wanted to protest, he truly did. There was something, however, telling him not to. So he did what he felt right, "Okay brother," he whispered. "I'll do it."

"Excellent, now just follow me." Aegon shook him for a moment and then led him once more.

For nearly an hour they walked, at first through large crowds in the market once more but eventually the crowds began to fade. They passed by fewer and fewer people until there were eventually none. No whorehouse could be in such an empty area but Jon continued. He did not want to insult his brother. Then Aegon led them to this very dark and very secluded area where only the rats could make a home.

"Where are we going," Jon asked. He no longer felt safe. The path that they were now taking was unnerving. It felt colder for some reason. Qarth was never cold but somehow it now chilled him to the bone. "This is not they way to the whorehouses, brother."

"Don't worry," Aegon's voice sounded different. It was no longer brotherly. It sounded disdainful. "I know exactly where we're going."

"Look brother," Jon said. He was slowly grasping the idea that he may have made a mistake. "I don't like this place. Why don't we return to the brothel by the harbor? Any brothel is as good as any." He was essentially stunned that they did not go to a brothel earlier. It would have made much more sense to do it then.

"What's wrong brother, don't you trust me?"

Now Jon filled with worry. Aegon had changed from being a brother to something else all too quickly. His stomach turned in knots as he was remembering what the burnt man had said to him months before. _Either kill him or slit your own damn throat and spare him the trouble of burning you._

Now frozen in place, Jon looked at Aegon, knowing he had been wrong to call him brother for as long as he did. "What is it that you want from me?"

"What do you mean by that, brother?" He had an unnatural smirk spread on his face. "Whatever do you mean by that? I merely wish to help you with your problem."

"What would that be," Jon began to slowly back from him. His mouth grew dry and he felt sweat trickle from his palms. He tried to dry them against his breeches but it was to no avail. "What is this problem that you think I have?"

That was when he heard strong steps coming towards them and the sound of steel rubbing against mail. Jon knew he had walked straight into a trap.

"Simply being alive," Aegon whispered. "Your problem is drawing breath and I seek to rectify it."

Jon's felt his heart near bursting. Five men cladded in different armor soon appeared around him. The two behind him bore ringmail, one carried a mace the other long daggers. There was one at each of his side his sides, one wore leather and the other had on a piece of plate armor, broken up for the heat. Both of them held a sword in hand. The last one, who appeared to be their leader, took a place next to Aegon. He looked fearsome, scars on his face and skin leathery from the sun. His eyes spoke only curses and the axe he held looked similar to the one Jon saw in the market. His mail looked like that from the market as well.

"So this is what you are," Jon's breath quickened but like before, he would not make himself to be weak. "A craven who can't even kill those he means to."

"I AM NO CRAVEN," Aegon shouted. "I am not a craven," he ran a hand through his hair and his voice dropped. "But neither am I a fool." The men next to him seemed anxious, he had clearly paid them handsomely for Jon's life.

Feeling trapped, Jon reached to his belt and procured a knife he had hidden there. It was a gift from Cynall two years earlier. _A knife has it's uses_, he told him. That day was warm just like today and it was good day. Cynall had been very kind to him as he lectured him on the small weapon. _In the face of death, you'll be grateful for a knife. You'd be grateful for a rock. You'd be grateful for anything really, just as long as you can kill someone with it. _

"What is that," Aegon laughed. His sellswords followed suit. It was very chilling. "Are you really threatening me with a knife?" He announced with outrage.

"I'll do more than that." If Jon was going to die, he was going do so without fear. "I'm going to kill you with it."

Aegon sneered, "Kill him."

Jon felt his heartbeat in his ears, it was deafening but not nearly enough. The man at his right charged first. He was a tall Dornish man in boiled leather. His steps were loud and uncoordinated. Jon turned to him and moved to his left. The blade the man had came crashing down, cutting through the air as it missed. Jon then jumped onto the taller and began to savagely move the knife towards his exposed neck.

The knife met flesh and screaming met Jon's ears. It was more deafening than his heartbeat. The blood that flew from him was wetter than the sweat Jon felt in his palms. Nonetheless he continued.

_Up and down, up and down, up and down. _Jon did not know if he was shouting or if he was thinking the words. _Up and down, up and down, up and down. _He did not know how long it lasted for. The man struggled until his legs buckled beneath them.

Jon felt the warm dirt on his face. He lifted his head to see one of the other mercenaries charging at him. He tried to lift up his knife but it was not in his hand but embedded still in the Dornish man's neck. He was the first person that Jon ever killed. Without thinking he looked for the sword that the corpse once carried.

There it was, lying motionless next to its former owner. Jon lurched for it, the only thing that could save him. Once he felt the pommel in his hand he swung the blade without thinking.

_Clank_

The two swords met and the mercenary staggered backwards. Jon took to his feet and faced the man. His breathing was fast and rattled. He had been in the training yard many times in his life. He had fought with wooden training swords and blunted tourney swords but this was different. Right now Jon was using live steel and fighting for his life. He was not dueling his father or uncles at this moment in the practice yard for such. He was fighting a man who was hell bent on killing him. So Jon swung without reserve.

The man had anticipated it and deflected the momentous swing with ease. He took a step forward as he delivered one of his own. It was with full strength and caused Jon to stagger backwards. The man delivered a second and a third. His second swing was blocked like the first and the third caused the man to lose balance and leave himself open for attack.

Jon charged forward and screamed. He did not swing his sword and he did not aim his attack. He hoped that he would run the man through.

The man shrieked and more blood found its way to Jon's face. It felt like warm water. He continued forward, moving one foot in front of the other until he stopped. There was a barrier now in front of him and it only helped him impale the sellsword even further. He shouted for only few mere moments more and then stopped. His eyes no longer had pain in them. They no longer had life.

A sharp pain coursed through Jon. It surged through him without any warning and he fell once more. He tried to scream but no words came out. He tried to stand but was kept down.

The two of the other sellswords kept him pressed against the dirt. Wetness began to spread throughout Jon's body. He did not know if it was piss or if it was blood.

"Keep him down," a familiar voice shouted. "I'll do this myself."

That was it. Jon was done. There was nothing more he could do. Death would claim him just like Aegon would the Iron Throne.

Then just as Jon thought he was going to die, something unexpected happened.

"You'll do no such thing," a gruff voice said.

"Who…kill him…kill…" Jon could only make up some of the words. He began to feel light headed and weak. His face was still in the dirt, so he could not see what was happening but he heard everything. The sound of steel clashing and screams and curses had been resurrected. All the voices he heard were voices he did not know, save one. That one echoed with panic. There were more shouts and more screams. Then there was the sound of footsteps, tiny footsteps. Then nothing.

Jon tried to gain control of his arms but felt nothing. So he tried again and again, until they finally moved and pushed him up, so he could bare witness to what had happened. It was such a sight. No longer were any of the sellswords standing. All five of them were sprawled on the ground and their blood ran and joined each other's, like a stream meets a river.

Then next Jon saw the damnest thing. Aegon on his knees, a knife pressed against his neck that drew the smallest trail of blood. The steel was held small girl no older than seven. Behind her were other children; some were a little older and the rest appeared her age or younger. The youngest amongst them was possibly four, maybe five. They all kneeled next to the dead and were tugging on them.

"I told you boy," the same gruff voice called. "You should have killed him."

Jon eyed the burnt man as he was looking down at him. Blood decorated the man just like he knew it did him. He clutched a piece of cloth in one hand, using it to wipe clean the bloodstained sword in the other.

"You bastard," a cowering voice said. "You fucking son of a whore."

Jon knew that voice. He hated the one who owned it. Once more he took to his feet. His drive now was something more than survival. He stumbled towards the first man he killed. Two boys were trying to move the corpse but stopped when they saw him. Somehow they knew what Jon wanted. He pulled his weapon free and stalked towards the kneeling coward.

"You fucking son of a whore," he shouted. The girl that kept him kneeling stepped away as Jon approached her. Her eyes said she knew what he was going to do.

"Damn you to the seven hells. I am the king, not you! I am the king."

Jon said nothing and moved his knife forward, slowly. The coward did not notice as he continued his curses but soon silenced. The steel was driven into his skin ever so gently. Jon's breathing calmed as he did it. Then the blade stopped as the hilt met the neck. Unsatisfied with his work, Jon twisted the blade. He wanted the coward to suffer. He wanted him to feel the pain as he died. He wanted those last moments to be as painful as possible before the fires in all the hells waited for him.

Then Jon felt a weight leaning against him. He jerked his knife free, cutting the neck even more before shoving the fresh stiff to the ground. He smiled and laughed as his legs gave way. The only thing that stopped him from hitting the ground once more was a pair of large arms enveloping him, cradling him gently.

Jon continued to grasp on to the knife as he was hoisted into the air. He was afraid to let it go. The man said words to the children, words Jon could not understand. Then as he walked away from where the chaos had taken place, he said the only words Jon wanted to hear. The last words he heard before darkness claimed him.

"You're all right now boy," he said. "I'm taking you home."

**So that was chapter 11 my friends. I know it was a sudden turn but I felt that it was time for this to happen. Let me know what you think in the review section. But as a treat, before you go off and do your thing, I'm willing to let you know some of the pairings I have planned, in a yes or no type way. I'm not too much of an asshole. Again, thanks for reading and have a good one. **


	12. The Wolves- Arya

"Arya, Arya where are you?" That whiny voice shouted looking for her. She did not even know she was being watched as she continued went on. "I swear if this is one of your games again, you'll be sorry. I'll tell mother and then I'll tell father."

Arya could not help but smirk. Sansa's feet were right in front of where she was hiding. She did not want to go to her needle lessons. They were awful and not once did she like them. They were dull and they were, well, boring. For hours she made her stiches and she had to make them perfect.

"No, Arya," Septa Mordane always said. "That is not a proper lady's work. It's too crooked."

Arya did not like how everything she did was crooked. It was just the same as Sansa's but she was always perfect. Everything that pretty Sansa did was perfect. Her stiches were always crooked. Always.

"That is very proper, Sansa." Septa Mordane always looked down at Arya. "You can learn a lot from your sister, Arya. Just follow her and do it like she does. It will all be fine."

_That was yesterday_, Arya thought. _I will never do needle work again. Not now and not ever. I hate it. It's so stupid. Everything about it is stupid. _

So she continued to hide. It was fun. Arya got out of her stiches and Sansa was forced to find her. This day could not get better.

_ Unless the stupid Septa realizes how bad Sansa's stitching really is. _ Arya would love that to happen. _That would be great. She'll realize she's not perfect. She's never been perfect. _

"If that's how it is then fine!" Sansa stomped her feet and caused dirt to fly. Bits of it got onto Arya's face but she smiled. She knew she was dirty and it made Septa Mordane mad, _the dirtier the better_.

Sansa groaned once more before she left. She tried to make her feet sound fierce like drums but they squeaked like a mouse instead.

Arya forced her breath in. If she laughed, her sister would hear her. If she heard her, she got caught. If she got caught, father would find out. If father found out…father would find out. That would not be good. So she waited and waited and waited until she felt ready.

_You won't make me do stiches ever again. _Arya scooted from under the table and ran to freedom.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," she smiled. She felt free. _No more needlework. No more needlework. _Arya wanted to shout it until the Old Gods heard her but she kept quiet. She had gone too far to get caught now.

So Arya kept moving. She ran and she ran and she ran. She did want to stop. She never wanted to stop. She ran and she ran and she ran. She ran past the servants, they laughed when she did. She joined in with them.

"Arya Underfoot," one of them said.

Arya did like that name. She liked Underfoot. She forgot who gave it to her. All she just knew all the servants called her that. They would help her hide before, always saying that they never knew where she was.

"I don't know where the girl is, Septa," Mikken, the blacksmith, said. "I think I saw her…I don't remember where exactly."

The blacksmith was the one who told her to hide. He warned Arya of Mordane that day and saved her from lessons.

"Hide in the hay, Arya. She won't think to look for you there." Mikken was right.

But now Arya wasn't going to hide. She was free. She was free and she would stay that way. She never wanted to do needlework again.

_I'm free, I'm free, I'm freeeeeee!_

Arya ran faster and faster. She ran past a big belly and laughter.

"Why there goes little Arya Underfoot," Fat Tom bellowed. He was the one who gave her the name. Now she remembered. He always said she was something…and…something else. That was before. Now she was free. She would not be that again.

Arya continued pass everyone. She was going to be free. She was never going back to the needlework! She was…caught.

A strong hand caught on and there was no more running.

_I was free. I was free. I was free!_

Arya knew she was caught. She tried to wriggle she tried to fight she tried to run but the hand kept it grip. It was not letting her go.

"Just where do you think you're going," she knew that voice. That old voice and she loved the man it came from. But now she was not sure.

Arya cringed as she turned. Uncle Benjen had a mean look. He looked upset. He gave her the eyes he gave Theon when he pushed Robb into a mud pool. He spent days getting the mud out of his boots and the other had to…do something. Arya could not remember that. It had been so long, how could anyone expect her to remember?

"Nowhere," she whispered. Her eyes were down. She was not free…she was caged. "I'm going nowhere."

"Nowhere," Uncle sounded mad. "I hear something about freedom and I'm free throughout the halls and the servants saying Arya Underfoot's escaped from her lessons again and you tell me you're going nowhere?"

"Yes," Arya drew it out like a question. She was afraid what her punishment would be. All she wanted was to be free from stiches and now she looked like she was going to be stuck in them forever.

"Well I don't believe you."

"But I'm…I'm telling the truth."

"Of course you are," Uncle Benjen smiled now. He made his face happy now. "Now, what's this about you being free?"

"I…"

"No butts, Arya." His hands found their way into her messy hair. They made it messier and came out dirty but he smiled. "So, do you want to be free?"

Arya's eyes felt her eyes jump. She wanted it. "Yes, yes, yes." She nodded as fast and as much as she could. "I don't want to go back to stiches. I don't want to go back."

Uncle Benjen smiled. "Fine then."

Arya felt his big arm wrap around her and her feet leave the ground. "Are we going?" She knew where they were going. She loved going there. She loved the woods. She loved it. She always felt free. She was always free there.

"Yes, little Arya. I'm taking us there, back to your favorite place."

Arya did love the wolfswood. She loved it. It was her favorite place in the entire world. She was not Arya Underfoot. She was not Arya Horseface, the ugly name she got because she looked like a horse. She was not even Arya of House Stark. Arya was only Arya. She wanted nothing more.

"I love it so much here, Uncle," Arya ran through pass the trees. She wanted to climb up them but Uncle said no. She was too young. When she was older she could climb up them.

"Of course you do," Uncle always smiled when he brought her here. The big Captain of the Guard was mush in her arms. Arya knew it. He loved her like his daughter. Father knew he was not Arya's only father. Uncle had taken to calling her daughter too but never said it.

"Why don't you run with me," Arya stopped. "Why do you always just sit on that log?"

"I'm not no boy," he always said that. "Just an aging soldier." He said that a lot too. "I'm here to make sure you, little Arya, are safe." He took in a deep breath to look around.

Arya mimicked him. She did love the wolfswood. She loved it very much. She just never loved it like Uncle. She had to move. She had to run. Arya loved the trees like Uncle, but she needed to run by them. She loved the blue sky and the white clouds. Only when she saw them moving as she did. She loved the woods. She only wanted to move. Arya wanted to be free.

"Come now, Arya," Uncle called. "We need to head home." Arms grabbed her again and put her on his horse.

"But Uncle," she pleaded. "I don't want to go back. I hate my needlework. I hate my stiches." She never wanted to leave.

"Arya," his face was close to hers. Uncle had the same scruffy beard like Father. His was smaller, like a pup's instead of a wolf's.

_The Wolf-Pup!_

"I know you don't like your needlework. I wouldn't like it either," he always had a warm smile. Even on the coldest days it made her happy and warm, like today. "But you have to do it. It's your duty little one. You will hate it now and you will hate it tomorrow but maybe you'll enjoy it one day."

"But what if I don't."

"Well, then it becomes a problem but what if I make you a promise."

"What sort of promise," Arya smiled. She showed Uncle her teeth and he showed his. "What promise?"

"If you learn your needlework and do the studies the Septa has you learn," his voice trailed off. He wanted to make sure he was listening. "Are you listening?"

"Of course, I am," Arya wanted to call him stupid. But he was Uncle. He was not stupid. Theon and Sansa were.

"Good, then if you do your work with the Old Septa, then I'll teach you how to use this," he reached for it. It was shiny. The Pup's Bite, that's what he called his sword. He always used it. He must have killed so many men with it.

"Why not now?" It was not fair. Arya wanted to learn now.

"Because you need to learn," Uncle put his hand on his head. "You need to learn to use this, this" his hand went to his breast. "And this," he placed it over its center.

Arya thought on his words. Something was hidden in them. "What does it mean?" He started to chuckle. "Uncle Benjen, what does it mean?" She did not like being laughed at.

"It means you need to think with your mind, live with your heart and to own your soul."

Arya scrunched her brows. _Why do you always speak in riddles, Uncle?_ "That's not fair. Robb and Theon get to practice, why can't I?"

The Pup's Bite went back into its den and Uncle was still being Uncle. He was never serious when she was. "It's because they have to. When you're older, you'll understand why. Come now," he took his place on his steed and began to make their way to Winterfell. "Your Father will want to be talking to you, skipping out on your lessons with Mordane does not go without punishment."

Arya's stomach turned to knots. Father would be mad. He was always crossed when she skipped her lessons. He never liked it when she did. Always said it was not proper. Sometimes he sounded like Stupid Septa Mordane.

When Winterfell was in sight Uncle said, "Don't worry, Arya. I'll speak easy with my brother. He won't be upset. I promise you he'll laugh." She felt relief. Uncle always calmed Father. She knew he could get her out of trouble. "I can't say the same about your mother."

Arya gulped and Uncle heard it. He patted her shoulder as they made it through the gates. Mother was not like Father, she stayed mad. She never was meaner when it came to lessons, much meaner.

"Arya Stark!" There was Mother, standing in front of them. Her eyes were like piercing like sharp icicles.

**Hello everyone. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Reviews are welcomed. Let me know what you think. I hope I got Arya right. It was a bit of a juggling contest but I think I got it. Thanks for reading, until next time.**

**I know the mind and heart thing was a Braveheart reference. Come on, give me a break. I'm only human. It was a great movie, with great quotes. **


	13. Preparation-Ned

So far this year had been long. The strain brought by it was worthy of its own song, of that Ned was sure. The girls were a handful but the boys were far worse. Some said war was hell; others said they never raised daughters but none of them dealt with as many growing boys as Ned did.

The Greyjoy boy, Theon, was becoming more of a handful. Now a man he was spending most of his time in the local brothels or in the closets with the kitchen girls. Why his manhood had not fallen off him had surprised Ned dearly. He could understand why the growing boy was doing what he did, most boys of seventeen often think with their prick. The ones who are handsome and tall, and know it, think with it constantly. Robert was a keen example of such.

Then there was Robb. More Tully than Stark, near a man and growing a beard like Ned, he acted like a young lord by day. He followed and gave commands like a good son. Robb did all his lessons faithfully. He knew his histories, his sums and his swordplay like any good lord. He was truly growing into his own. Then the sun would set and Robb would join his closest friend and venture with him to the brothels. Ned did not understand how he and Theon were like brothers.

At least the other boy was not like them.

Domeric did nothing worthy of attention. The heir to the Dreadfort was both calm and collect, like his father Roose. Yet was not like him at all. He was kinder and far more human than his father, despite looking just like him. Only his skin was not as pale as Roose's and his eyes seemed to have more life. Ned did like that about the boy. He was like his father and far from him at the same time. He would make a good lord. His fostering at Winterfell had proven to be a wise decision. Instead of looking for his bastard half-brother Snow, he had gained two in Robb and Theon. Both had welcomed him two years ago and soon took to calling him friend then brother. Only his harp playing was frowned upon. Then the serving girls heard him play one day.

Afterwards a different song was sung and Theon begged the Bolton to teach him the art of the music. Ned thought it had something to do with two girls leaving Domeric's quarters late one morning. Nonetheless, only he played the harp and only he reaped its rewards.

Actions like those that reminded Ned of youth. It was the time in one's life when a man or woman had nothing to fret about and lived deprived of both fear and worry. At least he liked to keep that illusion. Others were not so fortunate but he could not worry about them. There were other matters more pressing, like the one in front of him now.

Benjen was sitting before him in the study. He had on him a gray face; his eyes seemed like blue rivers in comparison. The news he had told him was dire. Many lives were in his hands.

"What happened, exactly," Ned asked. He leaned forward and rubbed his chin with a naked hand. The prickly feeling of his beard was all too usual. For so long it had been there, he could not remember himself without one.

"I really don't know how to explain it, brother," Benjen said. He copied his brother in movement. His beard was not as full as Ned's but still far from being stubble. "It just happened really."

"Why did you give him permission to come? You know he'll just bring them with him here."

Ned loved Jon. He truly did but he did not want him to come. Not now. So much must be prepared arrival. He did not have the time to see it done.

"Don't blame me for this brother," Benjen snorted, his head shaking in frustration. "I'm just a messenger. These were not my words but his." He tossed the raven's scroll across the desk. It nearly knocked over a quill and ink. Rather costly ink. "Sorry."

Ned shrugged as he read the scroll. It was the first time the paper was beneath his eyes but he knew the words well enough. Jon was coming north and there was nothing he could do to stop him. He must have been on the road for some time now and would arrive within a week, at most a month. Nothing could send him back now. That much Ned was certain of.

"There is only so much that can be done," Ned whispered. He set down the paper and rose. "Talk to Poole and make sure all the preparations are in order. If Jon is going to be here in Winterfell, we must prepare for him." _For winter is coming. _

"We're to be getting ready then," Benjen's mood began to brighten. He thought he had avoided what he was summoned for. How wrong he was.

"Don't think I haven't forgotten, brother," Ned's words had turned him into a lord once more. "I might have kept my tongue but I have not forgotten."

"Well then…this just keeps getting better for me now doesn't it?" The Wolf-Pup coward once more and became a child again. He locked eyes with his brother. Both men kept an unyielding gaze. Neither of them could afford to be weak. It could…it meant nothing.

Ned broke first. His laughter was hearty and sincere. Benjen followed and soon the room was filled with something besides the cold.

"Catelyn did not like what you promised our daughter. She was vexed," Ned tried to be gentle. His wife was not. She made her feelings known. The Lady of Winterfell did not adore the notion of her daughter wielding steel, let alone being taught to use it.

"I know, Ned. Trust me, I know she hates the idea," Benjen's hair fluttered by his eyes. "She made it clear to me when the Septa took the poor girl to her lessons." Arya never did like her lessons but she had to attend them. She needed to learn and that was the only way how. "She wanted to cry, Ned. I can't stomach the idea of it. She's not like Sansa. She's not a Tully."

Ned knew what he meant. She was Stark through and through. Months after being born, he knew she was Lyanna reborn. There was no other way to explain it. The girl was simply that. She loved to ride and she loved to be different. Arya would never be a proper lady. Ned knew that path laid for Sansa, her mother's daughter.

"I know you mean well brother but she's only a girl. She's far too young to use a sword. She's only eight." He was a father at this point. He could be Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell all he needed to be but when it came to his daughter's he could not. He was Ned Stark the father when it came to their welfare.

"She won't be eight forever. She needs to learn to use the blade and I'm going to teach her but when she's older."

"Really," Ned half asked. "How would you know when she's old enough?" The answer he was given was not the one he wanted.

"When she learns to use this," Benjen placed a hand on his head. "When she lives with this…"

Silence then became their tongue. They rarely said those words. They hated those words at the same time they loved them.

"And when she owns this," Ned placed a hand on his chest. The leather had a beat to it. He could feel his heart for some reason. "When she owns her soul." Lyanna's words. Those were all Lyanna's words.

"Aye…so what know?" Ned did not know how to respond. There were many words he could say. Some were unpleasant. Others were vicious and a few were unwise. But being the Quiet-Wolf had luxuries. Thought was one of them.

"We say nothing more of this," Ned said. "At least for now."

They spoke no more and went to carry on their duties. Benjen went to Vayon and Ned went to the yard. Each Stark had their task to accomplish. One as the Captain of the Guard and the other dealt with issues of importance.

The familiar sound of training filled Ned's ears. The cursing and japes of learning to train with steel were common. Robert cursed so much as a lad. He never let a rival live down a defeat and he never let them enjoy a victory either. His tongue was always so livid. Ned sometimes wondered what it would look like skewered.

"Come now," Robb shouted, his voice sounding less and less boy and more the man. "You can't be that useless with a sword?"

"Shut it," Theon yelled. "I don't need a sword…" The clanging of steel took his voice away.

Ned chuckled softly. The Greyjoy was decent with a longbow but terrible when it came to steel. True he was not as terrible with a blade as he once was but neither was he as good with an arrow as he claimed. Some parts of Balon had passed on to him. It pained Ned to think he might have to kill the boy. He did grow fond of him but he still knew him to be Greyjoy.

The steel faded once more as the sound of defeat echoed throughout the old castle. Laughter followed. Ned saw it all.

"Shut it," Theon pushed up from the mud but was still on his knees. The rains in the past week had seen to making the ground slick with mud. Rodrick and Martyn had seen to making the boys practice in it once it stopped. It had its uses. Entertainment was one of them.

"Come now, Theon," Robb smiled. "It wasn't that bad. It could be worst."

"Shut it," Greyjoy wiped away the mud from his practice helm. It was covered in brown. It made a squishing noise as he took it off.

"Thank you, Theon," the challenger offered a hand. It was a mutual sign of respect.

"No, thank you," the boy sneered. There was tumbling and the sound of armor crashing and mud rolling. When Theon found a weakness, he always took advantage of it. He was very mischievous when he wanted to be.

Ned stalked closer to the fighting ring, Ser Rodrick noticed him. He smirked as he got the attention of the two fighters.

"That's enough you two," both heads snapped up as the Master-of-Arms shouted. He was a commanding man and deserved the title. "You don't want to look like a pair of fools in front of Lord Stark now?"

Quickly, both boys were on their feet and shaking. The cold from the wet dirt must have seeped into their bones. "Apologies, my lord," both of their voices were in unison. "We meant no disrespect." This time courtesies were not as well aimed.

Ned looked at the boys and shook his head. All of his troubles had seemed to fade. The Bolton and Greyjoy boy continued to apologize until Ned sent them off, Robb as well. He needed them all to prepare. The Cassels, including the newly arrived Jory, were then given their orders as well and quickly saw to their preparations. Arya and Sansa would be given news later. Bran was still too young, barely four. He would not learn of this until it had already happened. That only left him with Catelyn. She needed to know as well.

Ned found her shortly after his visit to the courtyard. She was in their room, nursing baby Rickon. She clung to him, just like she had all their children when they were babes. Each of them received the same amount of care and affection, none above the other.

"My Lady," Ned had averted his eyes when he entered. He knew it was not proper to gaze at his wife in such a state. Even though he had seen and done far more with her. He still kept the courtesy instilled into him at a young age.

"It is nothing you haven't seen, Ned," Catelyn covered her exposed breast and settled the boy in her arms. He stirred for a moment, wanting more. She then walked to his crib and set him down. Little Rickon drifted off moments after. "Do not be troubled." Her eyes found her husband's and she smiled.

Ned gazed upon her in wonderment, as he sometimes did. Never in his life did he think he would love her, let alone as much as he did. The Old Gods were strange in their ways. Catelyn was beyond beautiful and kind. Then she became like ice when needed. There could not have been a better match for him. There was no other woman in all the Seven Kingdoms like her.

"Still," Ned said. "I must apologize. I did not mean to intrude."

Catelyn sighed, ignoring his apologies. "What is it that you wanted to tell me," she then asked. She knew him very well.

"What?"

"There's something you wanted to tell me, you always have that look when you do." She always said he had a certain look. Always. He still had no idea as to what it was.

"There is news," Ned sighed. He took a seat on their bed and grasped his wife's hand. "News that you must hear."

**And that is how this chapter ends. Let me know what you guys think of the story this far. As you can tell, this is very AU. I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am. Let me know what you think in the review section. Thanks for reading and have a good one. **


	14. Nothing-Jon

At first there was nothing. Then came the blackness. Only blackness. Jon could not feel anything. He could not see, smell nor move. All he knew was darkness. It was everywhere. It enveloped him. He was frightened. How could he not be? Jon knew nothing of where he was. He did not even know if he was standing. Nothing in his life frightened him like now. All of his hardships paled to this.

None of the bruises Sture had given him during swordplay, not being able to lift his arms after archery with Cynall and the lectures Father had given him were nothing. No amount of pain he had known and no amount of embarrassment could equal this. The darkness he was now in…this darkness was painful and bone chilling.

Those words were not right. The blackness he was in gave off more than that. It was so cold. It was so painful.

_So very cold. So very painful. _Jon could not even think proper. _So very cold._ That was all he could feel. There was nothing else. Just kiss of cold and pain yet it was not so simple.

No amount of heat in the world could counter such a burden. Qarth would freeze in moments. The darkness was so cold. _So very cold._

Jon could not move. He wanted to move his legs but could not do so. This darkness kept him still. It would not let him leave. It controlled him.

_You are not to leave. _A voice not his own echoed. _You are not to leave. _

Jon wanted to shout. He wanted to yell for Father but he could not. Every part of him was paralyzed. He could do nothing but listen.

_Everything will end. _It was frightening. The voice was darker than the black enveloping him. It was colder than the chill. _The Long Night will come. No fire can end it. There will be no warmth. _

Jon fought and fought. His voice would not come. He fought to get it out. He fought. He began to beg. He needed his voice he wanted it all to stop.

_There is nothing you can do. Nothing will stop us. Darkness and Ice will cover the world. _

Jon was close. He could feel his throat now. He could feel. He could feel. No longer was he helpless. He knew where he was. His feet were braced against cool dirt. Jon could not see it but he knew it was there. It was beneath his toes. He could feel his toes.

_No Dragon can stop us. There is no Prince. The Prince is dead. _

Jon had enough. "NOOOOOOOO," he found his voice. After so long he finally found it. He wanted to cry for his Father but knew his breath would be only wasted. He had to save himself, no one else could. "Leave me alone! Leave me alone," he continued to shout. He cursed the darkness; he cursed the voice and everything about this nightmare. He hated this place. He hated the cold. He hated the darkness. He hated the helplessness. Jon made sure the unknown voice know just that. "I am a Prince and I am a Dragon! Dragon's breath can melt Ice! Our Fire ends darkness! You are nothing!"

_You are no Dragon. You are no Prince. _The voice that had once made him tremble began to doubt its own words. Its power faded. _You are nothing! Nothing!_

"I am stronger than you!" Jon felt warmth on his face. In the distance a pale light could be seen. "I am stronger than you," silver light caused a blur. "I will end the darkness!"

The black and cold disappeared. A light and the warmth it brought took its place. Jon smiled; it was the most beautiful thing he ever witnessed. A new color then fell over him. Its glow was brighter and warmer than the silver before it. It was like a fire.

When Jon woke again, he was in someplace different than the last. No longer was he in darkness but a forest. It was so different. Like the books he read. It was green and it was wet. The woods were beautiful and they had hypnotized him. The magnificence was beyond description. No words could do it justice.

Jon pushed up and the mud stuck itself to him. It was incredible. He never felt it before. It was so soft. He wanted to play but he did not want to linger. He did not know where he was…and he did not know where he had been. This was all he could remember. Only trees and…and a silver light.

The moonlight seemed to be aimed. Jon stood hesitant at first but could not prevent himself from exploring. He knew he had to follow it. Besides that, he wanted to see where it leads. He needed to know. Something in him, not the rationality Father had taught him but something else that was both different and natural. Something he was born with but did not heed until this moment.

_One foot in front of the other_, Jon continued in his thoughts. _Put one foot in front of the other. The last thing I need is a Direwolf to appear. _He loved reading of those creatures. His books only made him further his curiosity. He wanted to hold one and raise one. It made him miss that stray bitch. She was not so kind. She liked to bite, Jon remembered that all too well. He could still feel her teeth digging into his fingers.

The crunching of leaves and twigs rung in his ears. It was the only sound in the woods. He found that it had an unusual silence about it. The books said woodlands were never quiet. Should there not be wolves or boars or stags? Why was it so still? No crickets or beetles buzzed. Nothing but silence filled the air. Still Jon continued. He moved forward and journeyed on into the forest. It was the only way he could find his way out.

Silence was everlasting companion during this trek, never-ending and like his shadow. Jon wanted to shout. He wanted something to fill the air. He did not want the quiet anymore. A companion could be tolerated for only so long.

"Hello," he shouted. His feet stumbled as he stepped through the undergrowth. "Hello, is there anyone out there," Jon continued to call. His pleas met nothing and only his echo returned to him.

"Hello," he shouted once more. With lungs now burning, Jon decided it was best to give up. He leaned against a tree. While slumping against it, he decided to wait for morning. Jon felt foolish for following the moonlight but more so for thinking it would lead him to someplace, preferably to a way out of this cursed forest.

After thinking for a few moments, Jon decided that was his youth that drove him follow the glow. That must have been it. Nothing else could explain it. His foolishness had cost him valuable time. Time he could have used to find food for his hunger and rest because he was tired. He could have used it to his advantage but he squandered it, like a boy would.

Jon shut his eyes. He wanted to sleep but he…he felt that he should not. He struggled to smother the foolishness with rationality but he could not find it in him to do so. He began to think of foraging for food to deal with his hunger but his belly did not rumble. Jon knew he should have been hungry. He had been walking for must have been hours and he did not feel the effects. There was no rumbling in his belly and there was heaviness in his eyes. Even his legs felt fresh, not even the slightest bit tired. Where was he?

This was no forest. There was nothing here but trees and the dirt. There were no animals. There was no noise. There were just the trees and the silver light.

Then there was that orange…

Jon immediately took to his feet. He did not know this. He knew not of where he was and knew no books he had could tell him. He knew nothing. For the first time in his life, Jon was helpless.

_No, _thoughts began to fill his mind as he approached. _I have been weak before and I will not be that way again. _He ventured forward. He needed to see this unknown. He knew he needed to conquer it.

In the end, however, Jon regretted that.

Four people were before him. Two were men in white bulky armor. Their backs were turned and they did not hear him. They looked like knights, fearsome and awe-inspiring.

_The Kingsguard. _Jon was unrelenting. He wanted to see this and knew he had to. Some part of him knew that but it was unfamiliar.

The other two figures were kneeling in front of a great tree. It paled any white he had seen before and tears looked to flow from it. Tears red like blood.

It was a Weirwood, the Heart Tree. The followers of the Old Gods worshipped them like those who followed the Seven knelt before their idols. Melisandre had told him once. "All followers of the Old Gods kneel before these trees and pray, amongst other things." Jon remembered that lesson, somewhat. It had been too long since he had read of the Old Gods and he would rectify that, if given the chance.

One of the two kneeling looked like a man but had hair longer than most men did and as silver as moonlight. He bore armor that blacker than anything Jon had ever seen. It was cruel and misshapen but it did not make him tremble. It was beautiful. The misshapen parts mimicked dragon scales, like from books. It had a certain redness to it that made it appear blood like but unlike it. The red was beautiful. The man then turned his gaze from the tree, revealing a fair and pale face.

Jon thought he knew the man from a place far away but he had never laid eyes upon him. His eyes, however, he did know. They were a familiar violet. They were unlike Father's and more beautiful. Jon looked to where the man's gaze was and laid his eyes upon their focus.

A woman in a blue dress and black cloak kneeled next to him. She was beautiful, clearly far younger than the man but it seemed not to matter. She smiled as she kept her gaze at the tree, blushing brightly and tried to avoid his gaze. Her lips moved but Jon could not hear the words. He stepped closer and closer.

He felt deaf, as he loomed. He should have heard her words but he could not. The knights did not seem to notice him, only a few steps away from them and they continued to keep their gaze at the couple kneeling. Jon wanted to reach out to touch their armor but did not find the courage. Some might say he was a craven for that but it was best not to startle a knight. Especially if said knight is of the Kingsguard. They looked just like the ones from the tales.

"I am his," the words made Jon flinch. He finally heard her voice. It was surprisingly pleasant. It was not soft and neither stern but somewhere in the middle.

"I am hers," the man spoke now. His voice was soft. That much was clear. He spoke with an inviting whisper.

"He is mine."

"She is mine."

They said the last words together and rose with joined hands. Their gaze fixed upon one another, lovingly. They loved each other. Jon felt like he was in a song, only the people in songs could look at one like this. Their lips touched together softly and laughter came from the woman. Jon knew that laughter very well, even though it passed through a stranger's lips. He heard it so many times in his life.

"I love you," the man spoke in between breaths.

The woman said the same and added a single name, "Rhaegar," Jon's father. That made the woman his mother, Lyanna Stark.

Jon never asked Arthur of her since that night years ago and neither did his guardian tell him more than what he did that night. He never, not once, told him who she was and what she had looked like. Jon only knew of her through the stories the Usurper had passed. The same ones Aegon had heard. Claiming their Father was a madman who kidnapped a girl and raped for over a year everyday.

For his whole life, Jon's half-brother swore on her name. He called Lyanna everything he could. He hated her and he had no right to. Jon did not hate the mother of his brother; he could not hate a woman he never met. All he knew of Elia was that she was a good woman, who died too early and in too much pain. Jon understood it was not his right to hate her for anything. He could not ever blame a parent for their children just as he knew he could not bring himself to blame a child for their parent.

Complicated thoughts soon passed like the warm tears trickling down his face. Jon did not cry out and kept silence. He did not want to be seen by Mother and Father. He did not want to ruin this for them. He wanted to leave and be gone to some place far away but it was not going to pass.

A hand cupped his face. It was small, like a woman's. Melisandre's was of the same size but this was not as smooth as hers. This hand was calloused.

Jon lifted his eyes to see his mother staring at him. She was only a year or so older than him but she was his Mother still. He wanted to know what she was like. He wanted to ask her so many things but kept silent.

Her eyes were warm and colorful, even though grey. They brimmed with tears like his must have, glassy and in pain. Her happiness and joy long faded, as did Rhaegar's. His father looked at him with the same sadness but kept himself distant. Like he knew he caused something so horrible, it was a sin for him to speak or approach his son. Father only offered a faint smile and looked at his son with a sense of pride. He knew something Jon did not, just like Mother. She brought her other hand onto his neck and pulled him into her. Clinging to him for the first time and leaving him short of breath.

"I love you," Mother whispered. "You are a Dragon and you are a Wolf. You have a strength in you greater than anyone else." She spoke no more and held on to him tighter.

Jon then felt another grasp on to his shoulder. Father had said more with that gesture than words.

Then came the pain and Jon began to scream as he woke up.

**So that was chapter 14. Let me know what you think of it. Have a good one and thanks for reading. **


	15. The Princess-Daenerys

Daenerys Targaryen watched the sea ahead of her. The waves moved like her breath and heartbeat, smooth and never ending. The Narrow Sea was so beautiful. She loved watching it, now she could without worry.

Illyrio Mopatis was the man's name. He was the man who had given Daenerys and her brother sanctuary. He was so kind to do so. Illyrio found them both in the street, Viserys was making his threats to her about a matter she could not remember as the man came up to them. At first Daenerys thought he was nothing more than a fat merchant with an overly large belly and cheese colored hair and teeth more yellow than gold. His breath had reeked of wine and warm food. The smell of roasted eel lingered as he spoke.

"Hello," he said. It caught them both by surprise. He acted kind and warm. An unfamiliar comfort since Ser Willem died. "Are you two, who I believe you are?" His words caught them both off guard. Daenerys remembered tugging on Viserys' arm and pleading for them to go, thinking that he was the enemy they were running from but he did not have any of it.

His lilac eyes spoke all the words Daenerys needed to hear, "Do not wake the Dragon." Viserys then focused on Illyrio and said they were nothing more than common folk.

"Smart man," Illyrio's words had hidden meanings. "But from what I understand, you are Viserys Targaryen, the Rightful King and Ruler of Westeros." His eyes wandered and found Daenerys. "And you are Daenerys Targaryen. Do not be alarmed," he saw their hesitation. He saw their fear. "I mean you no harm. I come to you as a friend and if it pleases you both, I would like to offer you both a place in my home. If you wish."

Daenerys wanted to plead with her brother but he spoke before she. "I accept," Viserys said, with a King's pride. He said he should act like one until he got his throne back. He said it made for good practice. "It's good to know that there are some who respect the ways of the world." He looked at Illyrio expecting a bow. One that never came but he did, however, call Viserys a king and led him on to his estate, the one they had been calling home since.

Daenerys felt that the title of estate was belittling this place. She wanted to call it a palace but Illyrio said that it was no such thing but, instead, rather modest. He said the Prince of Pentos' home was much larger and far more exquisite than his own but the Prince was not a giving man. Daenerys found the first part of what he said hard to believe. She could not imagine it. Illyrio's home was filled with over a dozen rooms, a household of servants, a clear view of the sea and the city, a kitchen filled with food and cellars filled with wine and statues throughout. What more could the Prince of Pentos have that Illyrio did not? If a merchant of spices and gemstones and other things could have such a large home, then what must a Prince have?

Daenerys never lived in such a place before. She had lived in estates as she and Viserys fled from the Usurper's assassins. Magistsers and nobles had welcomed them both before but they eventually threw them to the seats. "None of them feared the Dragon. They bow before the Stag," Viserys said. He added, "If we stay here any longer, then the Usurper's hired knives will find us Dany," he never hesitated. "We need to flee before reach us." Not once did she ever see one. Sometimes she wondered if they were real but did not want to leave it to chance. Viserys said the first thing they would do is rape her before slitting her throat or maybe the other way round, if she screamed.

All Dany knew was what she had seen and what she had been told. She was told Mother had died on Dragonstone giving her breath. She was told Ser Willem Darry and four soldiers loyal had saved her and Viserys from the Usurper's forces. She remembered Willem as an old bear. He was grey but commanding. The few servants they had at the house with the red door listened to him, even when he was in his sickbed. They lived in terror and fear of him, until he died. Then they took what little was left and their home was locked to them. Dany never once passed through the threshold again. She once asked Viserys to take her back. She wanted to see the lemon tree outside her window again. Instead he told her that she had awoken the Dragon and left her face purple and brown afterwards. Dany was forced to hide back her tears; the Dragon did not want to be awoken again. He did not threaten. He promised.

Now here with Illyrio, who had been kind and asked for nothing in return for his hospitality, Daenerys was careful. She did not want to upset Illyrio and she, especially, did not wish to bother Viserys. The Dragon would be upset if she did. She did not want to awaken him. She stayed quiet and did as she was told. She was, in many was, just another servant, slave she felt like, serving her master under the threat of pain. If not given permission or asked to do something, she did not. For the first week, Dany did not wear her new clothes. Viserys said she had to earn the fine clothing, unlike he. He walked through the estate wearing new silk shirts and loose comfortable breeches, far better than the torn leather he had been forced to wear since Lys. He told Dany not to touch the silk until he gave her permission, so she could appreciate it. For the first three days she wore the tattered clothes, filled with holes and covered with dirt, she had worn since Volantis. Afterwards, Illyrio asked her to wear the new silks he had made for her, Viserys told her no and she did not. Instead, she remained in her room with her door shut and ate only when he brought her food. She knew to listen to the Dragon.

Ever since, Dany was allowed to wear clothes given to her and eat to an extent. Viserys said she could not be fat. His future wife could not look so vile. That she needed to have the look of a queen if she ever wanted to father his heirs. It made her shiver, as if being thrown into a sea of ice. Yet Dany could not refuse the Dragon. She would have his heirs and keep the line pure, as he commanded.

Then Dany decided to forget such troublesome thoughts. She wanted to feel like a child, if only for a moment. Viserys was gone and talking to people, he claimed would get them back his throne. All she knew about the people he was meeting was that they were gold. He said nothing more before departing. Illyrio had elected to stay behind and manage his trade but still sent over a dozen of his guard to protect her brother. Although slaves, Illyrio said they would keep Viserys safe and escort him home when needed.

Dany had left the balcony and ventured inside. She wanted to see more of what lay in there. It was so large that she knew she had not seen everything. This would probably be her final chance at childhood. She did not want to waste it in fear of the Dragon. Not while he was absent, at least.

Dany ventured through out the grand halls, marveling at the marble floors and celling. The statues were life like; the one in the courtyard was of a beautiful man. Dany wondered who he must have been to Illyrio. _Someone important, _she thought but could not figure out whom. She then continued. The servants paid her no mind. They all had their duties to tend to and could not afford to be distracted. Illyrio had always made sure things were done promptly in his home. He was not harsh but _neither_ was he weak. He kept the power in his household.

As she continued through the estate, Dany found a door open. She had never seen it before, if she did, she would have remembered. It was big and made the other doors appear common, although Dany knew each one was finely crafted and made to perfection. The wood was a dark onyx, different from the others that were all a redden brown. Dany knew it was not wise to open the door and she did not want to wake the Dragon but the door bothered her. She did not know why but it did. She hungered to know what was hidden behind it. Her conscious pestered her like an empty belly ready for supper. Reaching out, she pushed the door gently and made her way inside.

At first the room appeared to be of nothing special, only appeared to be a library. There were bookshelves as high as the celling and filled to the brim. Maps were sprawled on the tables with measuring tools lying atop. Papers, quills, jars of ink were everywhere. Dany near tripped as she entered; a quill tip nearly embedded itself into her foot. If it had, the servants would know where she was and Illyrio would shortly after, if not first. That would not be pleasant.

Dany came to realize that this room was Illyrio's solar. That no one but he was allowed in. The dust that lined some of the shelves said no servants were allowed in. Illyrio would not have allowed the place to be so improper if he had. She realized her mistake and made her way to leave, hoping that none of the servants would confess to her crime or she be made to. Dany did not want Illyrio to know. She did not want the Dragon to know.

Her feet were moving towards the door but her eyes did not follow. Her gaze found its way to Illyrio's desk. One of the papers had caught her attention. There was something that beckoned her.

Dany wanted to leave, she did but her curiosity got the better of her once more. Despite what Viserys had told her, she was not yet a woman. At three and ten she knew she was still a child. Her woman's body was barely taking shape. She stepped towards the desk, despite all protest. She wanted to see what was there.

At first Dany saw nothing but papers. Some were blank and others had drawings and sketched bled into them. She dare not touch them, Illyrio would know if they were out of place. She knew he would find out. She did not want him to. Only her eyes touched the ink, her fingers stayed at her side. Too afraid to move.

The first drawing she saw was of a dragon. Its mouth was open and aflame. It soared over a line of infantrymen. Some men held pikes and bows, most wielded axes, swords and shields. There was a sigil on them but Dany did not know what it was of. It looked like a flower but it was unfamiliar to her. She looked back to the dragon and saw a rider on it, she did not know if it was a man or woman. There was nothing distinctive about it. So her eyes continued to gaze at the scrolls.

Next to the one of a dragon rider laid one of a fat man. He had many chins, more than Illyrio. His whiskers could barely hide them. A crown was donned on his head and he looked like a king. Dany thought him Targaryen but did not know which of her grandfathers he was.

After him came a man in black armor. It was black as darkness; the only visible color was the three-headed dragon etched with red ink like blood, her house sigil. In hand he carried a sword. It was unlike any steel she had seen before. During her travels with Viserys she had seen many types of swords. Some were large, others were small, some were crooked and curved and some were notched and saw-like. This sword was not like them. The blade was like any longsword she had seen before, lengthy and bulky but a man could wear it his belt easily. What caught her eye was what came from the blade.

Flames seemed to be flying from the steel. Fire danced off the steel, orange and red came to life in that paper. The detail so fine, Dany felt the heat bounce off on to her. The flames seemed so real, so _alive_. She needed to know what this person had looked like. Slowly, her hand went towards the scroll covering the face. Fear coursed through her but it faded, she needed to know.

Once the map of an island was removed, she saw the man. The one she thought to be her brother Rhaegar, the armor looked just like Viserys had told her. When he talked of the Dragon. This man did not look like a Dragon.

His face was handsome, like Rhaegar was said to be. His skin smooth and youthful but his eyes were grey and looked old and wise. Not violet or mean like Viserys. Those eyes made him appear many years older; to be near fifty but his face was of a man twenty but at most thirty. His hair was not silver blonde like Dany's. This man did not look like a Dragon. He did not look Targaryen…but he seemed to be. He had strength Dany had never seen. He had power in him…but he was not a Dragon. Viserys was the last Dragon. That Dany knew.

Quickly, she placed the map where it once was and left the room as she found it. At least in the manner she hoped it had been in. Dany returned to the balcony and began to look across the Narrow Sea once more and wondered if she would ever see her home.

**So this was my first Daenerys chapter. It was a pill. It took me a week to outline this thing and to get it done but I finally did. So let me know what you think. Oh and to the people who asked about the pairings…I lied. Just wanted to tease. They're all hidden in the Iron Bank and not to be revealed until written. **

**I also got the next fifteen or so chapters outlined, so they will come much easier and sooner than I expected. Again, thanks for reading. Hope you have a good one. **


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